Once In A Lifetime
by cendella
Summary: April is a sex and relationship columnist and Jackson is a man about town. They navigate love, lust and romance in the city of New York.
1. Work It Out

**I do not own Grey's Anatomy… crap!**

 **This is my first AU. Well, 2** **nd** **as I'm part of the Binge – Collective Challenge, but this is my 1** **st** **attempt at a multichapter AU. Be gentle.**

Once In A Lifetime

Chapter 1: Work It Out

 _One, two, three, four. Left. Left. Left, right, left._

I count off the cadence in my head as I make my way down 14th street on my way back home from my morning run. Beyoncé's _Get Me Bodied_ , blaring in my Beats by Dre earbuds, I can feel my ponytail swish back and forth on the exposed skin of my back. It seems as if I hadn't been able to get out into clean, fresh air in months and running on my treadmill in a stuffy apartment with the window thrown open just wasn't cutting it.

It's April, and the weather has finally broken after what seemed like the longest winter on record. Countless days of snow up to my knees and freezing temperatures accounted for a gloomy season and I for one was over it. So, when the weatherwoman on channel 4 said it was going to be a balmy sixty-four degrees today, I didn't hesitate to throw on my sneakers, grab my windbreaker and rush out the door.

I missed these little treks through my neighborhood. I live in the Gramercy Park section of Manhattan, a historic district named so in the 1960's. It's a quiet corner of the city, bordered by Union Square on the south, the Flat Iron District to the west, 23rd street to the north, and close by where the East Village and Soho. There are tree-lined streets with quaint brownstones, town houses and my residence happens to face the infamous Gramercy Park itself. The park is a privately-owned enclave and is off-limits to anyone who isn't a resident of the thirty-nine buildings facing it, and I happen to be one of the lucky ones who has a key.

I found this little slice of heaven my first week in New York, fresh out of college. At the time, I could hardly dream of ever living in such a posh area, but I put it on my wish list of places I eventually hoped to reside. I'd graduated from the University of Virginia in Charlottesville with enough money for a bus ride to New York and six months' rent for a barely habitable Brooklyn studio apartment in Williamsburg. Those five years that took me from humble beginnings to where I am now have been a whirlwind, but I am thankful for every experience I've had, both good and bad that has led me here.

Making my way onto my street, I slow my myself into a light jog and then make a full stop in front of Pushcart Coffee. Hands on my waist, I let out several slow, deep lungsful of air in order to control my breathing and calm my pounding heartbeat. I frequent this establishment practically every morning and typically on my way to work, order a large European roast, two Sweet'N Low's, with a splash of cream. Today, I get a large black coffee, no sugar, no cream, and wait patiently as they grind the beans to order, a big smile on my face. The café itself is neighborhood friendly, with a eupeptic ambiance, a space for kids and genial staff. I think what I appreciate most is their business motto. They are committed to using local vendors such as small bakers and regional farms for their products and are extremely supportive of the community surrounding them.

Hands clasped together behind my back, I bend forward at the waist to ogle their signature chocolate chunk cookies and various pastries through the glass display. I can feel the drool pool in my mouth and my stomach grumble, but I steady my resolve, straighten my body, and focus on the passing foot traffic out the window. It's just after seven and the city is alive and bustling, ready for the start of a busy week. I see people rushing to the subway station most likely praying that the trains are on time. Kids dressed in uniforms, holding their parent's hands as they are walked to school. As I daydream about one day taking the same journey with my own children, I hear my name called and pay for my purchase along with a copy of the Daily News before leaving.

Approaching my brownstone, I wave to Arizona, the occupant of the dwelling next to mine who is walking her dog Milo. She and her wife Callie are corporate lawyers at one of the top firms in the city and own the entire building next to mine. They're parents to eight-year-old Sophia and three-year-old Maximillian and are some of the sweetest people I've ever known. They were the second people to welcome me to the block, outside of my property owners the Webber's, and invited me into their home for brunch the Sunday after I'd settled in. Every so often, I babysit for them when they're in a bind, even though Sophia and Maximillian have a nanny, but sometimes emergencies come up and if I'm available, I'm only to happy to help them out. They've been nothing but kind to me over the years, keeping an eye on me from time to time as I have no family in the city. I guess they feel responsible for the wide-eyed girl from the small Ohio town, regardless of the fact I've lived in Virginia for four years during my formal education and five years in New York.

Before I make my way inside to my living space, I pull in the garbage can from the street for my landlords. I always try to do nice things for them; they're a wonderful couple. Two years ago, they went against their stringent requirements held for candidates who wanted to rent from them and gave me a chance. When I'd applied, I did have a stable income, excellent credit, and no criminal history. The worse offense I had on record being a ticket I got when I was twenty-five for going fifteen miles over the speed limit on the Long Island Expressway. The one thing I didn't have was a reference from three well known and established members of the community. They wanted ones who could attest to my character, my financial responsibility and current job performance. The last one was simple as my boss adored me and didn't hesitate to offer her praise. At the time, I just didn't know anybody besides her with enough social influence to aid me in my quest. At the end of my meeting with the Webber's, I tried to explain the reason I only had the one reference, but they kindly waived the prerequisite for the other two because they liked my face. They said it was warm, open, and trusting and they couldn't imagine a better tenant if they'd created one themselves.

I climb the front steps and unlock the outer door, ringing the bell for apartment 3A before I go in. Taking the stairs three at a time; gotta work those calve muscles when I can, I open the door to my unit and leave it slightly ajar, tossing my newspaper onto the pine dining room table ten feet inside the entrance. I place the cup of coffee next to it and continue into the kitchen to prep my breakfast. After seeing those delicious looking baked goods, I'm craving something sweet and forgo my usual bran muffin and opt for a Quakers Medleys Blueberry Hazelnut Oatmeal cup. It's portable and I can eat it on my way to work as I have no time to sit and make a decent meal. Putting the kettle on the stove so I can brew myself a cup of oolong tea before I leave, not three minutes after I'd arrived, the door crashes open and my upstairs neighbor, best friend and mooch, Cristina comes marching in.

"What up, bitch?" she says as she snatches up the coffee I brought for her.

I normally bought two every morning; one for her and one for me, but I'm trying to cure myself of my caffeine addiction and for the last two weeks have been sticking to tea.

"Good morning, Cristina. Isn't it a lovely day?" I ask in my typical bubbly manner only because I know it gets on her nerves.

"Ugh, why do you always have to be so damn chipper in the morning. It's disgusting. You're a New Yorker now. Bust out those curse words," she orders and as usual, I ignore her.

"I'm not a prude, you of all people should know that. I just choose to say them when necessary and using them as part of a greeting is not what I'd consider proper vocabulary.

"Whatever," she mutters with a mouth full of toast of which where she obtained, I do not know.

Cristina had a habit of eating all my groceries because she refused to cook and barely bought enough food to sustain herself. I looked in her refrigerator once and all it held was a bottle of wine, a jar of spicy mustard and a plastic container that held what appeared to be a salad, but the lettuce was so brown and wilted that I couldn't be sure what it was I saw.

I watch as she throws her socked feet up on the table and open the newspaper to the sports page. Cristina is a huge Yankees fan and it's the first section she always reads. I don't bother to tell her to take her feet down because she won't listen. I love her dearly, but her personality has taken some effort for me to get used to, but I couldn't ask for a better friend in the world.

Cristina and I met the week I moved in. I was carrying a box of kitchenware upstairs while she was heading down with her Diamondback Wildwood Classic bike under one arm. We bumped shoulders as we passed, and I was about to apologize when she called me an asshole and kept going. Her behavior didn't surprise me as I'd been living in New York for years and over time had become immune to the sometimes rude and hostile temperament of its population.

That had been the bulk of our interaction for weeks. Bypassing each other on the stairs, converging at our mailboxes and occasionally seeing one another on the street. Each time I would try to engage her only to be met with an eyeroll. By that point, I figured we would never be civil and I had no idea why. Cristiana didn't know me and vice versa, and I'd never done anything to make her hate me. Besides, I didn't have the energy to try and figure out what her deal was. I was to busy settling into my new job to worry about what she even thought of me.

That was until about four weeks after our initial encounter when I heard a loud commotion coming from the hallway. Our building was always quiet, it's tenants respectful of each other's privacy, so the noise threw me for a loop. There were six apartments in the three-story walkup, not including the ground floor space occupied by the Webber's and Cristina lived directly above mine. I'm not a nosy person by nature, but something about the disturbance bothered me. I grabbed my trusty MultiGuard stun gun, put on my fuzzy slippers; I know, scary right, and peeked out the doorway. I couldn't see anything from my vantage, so I craned my head out further. All I could hear was yelling of a man's voice I didn't recognize and one I did identify as Cristina's. I couldn't get the gist of their heated conversation, but I did catch the words liar and cheater and it didn't take a genius to figure out what the argument was about. By then, I heard Cristina shout, " _get out, get out"_ , and my big sister instincts took over.

I'm the second oldest child of four sisters and very protective of my younger siblings. We were very a tightknit group growing up and had our share of confrontations with the male species. The Kepner sisters were the fiery haired sirens in town an individually we were four of the most diverse women you'd ever meet.

Libby the oldest, was the mama bear. Watching over her cubs, protecting them from all who wanted to do them harm. She was energetic, assertive, clever and the most social of us all. Third in line was Kimmie. She was adventurous, curious, emotional, and prone to unusual ideas. The baby, Alice, was compassionate, cooperative, and rather aggregable. As for me, I'm the studious one, organized, dependable and though not shy, the most reserved of us all. We had our share of squabbles amongst ourselves, what siblings didn't? But, we were of the motto that 'blood is thicker than water' and did not tolerate anyone talking about, messing with, or harming our sisters in any way, shape, or form. So, even though Cristina had been a total bitch to me for weeks, I couldn't disregard that protective urge that rose up within me.

Taking the steps two at a time, I froze at the scene in front of me. There was Cristina trying desperately to close her door as the man in question had his foot wedged in between, pushing at it with all his might. I was horrified. I was sure she knew who he was due to the previous accusations she'd thrown at him, but that didn't excuse the fact that he was forcibly trying to enter her place.

I don't know what came over me, but I shouted for him to stop what he was doing, or I'd shock him until his balls shriveled up to a crisp permanently ending his chances of becoming a father, even though I had no idea if he had children already or not. My presence startled him as he quickly looked from me to Cristina. A forlorn expression overtook his features and I was sure it was shame as he backed away, lowered his head, and swiftly left.

Cristina and I had stared at each other until we heard the front door close behind him and I wasn't sure what to do at that moment. Lend her a comforting ear or offer to call the police. I didn't know the extent of their relationship and frankly, it wasn't any of my business. All I knew was that someone was in need and I would have come to the aid of any female in trouble if I could. I was about to go back downstairs when Cristina turned, leaving her door wide open which I took as an invitation to enter.

Her apartment was the total opposite of mine though our layouts were the same. A one-bedroom spacious apartment, with a main area that combined the dining room, living room and office space, with a moderate sized kitchen and bathroom, but that was where the similarities ended. Where my apartment was more English Cottage with pine wood and painted furniture, weathered finishes, florals, and stripes mixed with solid fabrics, and walls painted in ivories, pale shades of green, dusty pinks and sunflower yellows, her was the total opposite. She had a contemporary décor, sleek and streamlined, teak wood and glass, the main color theme white, with bold accents of red, silvers and blacks. We couldn't be more different if we tried. So, when I followed her inside, I didn't know what to expect. What I got was insight into a person who like me was not what people perceived on the outside.

Cristina Yang was the only child of Helen and Saul Rubenstein. Her mother had remarried after her father, Lael died in a car crash they were involved in when she was five. Saul was a real estate developer and kept her mother in a very comfortable lifestyle. She grew up on Park Avenue, went to the best private schools and attended Princeton University. She had a master's degree in chemical engineering and worked in pharmaceuticals, designing new drugs and their production facilities.

Unspeaking, she had handed me a beer from the fridge and I sat across from her on the sofa. As we sat sipping in silence, I wondered if she was going to talk to me when suddenly it all came pouring out. The guy that I had scared off was her now ex-boyfriend Owen Hunt. She had met him at a pharmaceutical conference in San Diego last year and they had hit it off immediately. She was pleased to learn that he'd lived in the city as well and began a torrid romance with him. For a year, he had spent evenings with her, but his mornings with someone else apparently. It was all by chance that she found out he was married and had four kids. She'd bumped into him and the misses in Brooklyn when she was visiting a friend in Park Slope. As soon as she saw them together, she knew. It explained why he claimed he couldn't sleep over at night because he liked to get to work early in the mornings. Why they never took trips together because he always claimed to have a big project coming up and couldn't get away. Why he didn't introduce her to his coworkers, claiming they were a bunch of pompous jerks and didn't want to expose the woman he loved to a bunch of arrogant assholes. She kept her cool while he introduced his wife and was unfazed when he came by to assure her that it was a marriage of convenience and he was only staying for the kids. That's when the yelling began, and I came to her rescue.

From that day on, we'd become extremely close. Going for runs on the weekends or grabbing a bite after work at Pete's Tavern, a famous neighborhood establishment and New York's oldest continuously operating bar having opened in 1864. We'd often share a cab to work and gab along the way about everything under the sun. To me, Cristina was like a prickly pear. Hard and thorny on the outside, but soft and sweet on the inside. To the rest of the world, she was a brilliant yet stern taskmaster, who excelled in her field from sheer force alone.

Walking into my bedroom, I untied my windbreaker which had ended up wrapped around my waist halfway through my run and peeled off my sweaty workout clothes. I had about an hour and a half before I had to leave for the office and I still needed to shower, wash, then dry my hair before getting my tea and oatmeal to go. I had no clue what Cristina was doing to entertain herself, but I needed to get a move on before I was late. There was a staff meeting scheduled at ten and before that, I had to get the latest copy of my article to my editor for review.

I work as a writer for _Sasse_ magazine, an international women's publication which featured articles pertaining to relationships, sex, health, careers, self-improvement, celebrities, fashion, travel, design, fitness, and beauty. Available in a multitude of countries and languages, we are headquartered in Manhattan. The magazine had been in print for over fifty years, going from literary journal to a family quarterly to its current form, a women's magazine. I started out as a junior copywriter taking the time to learn all that I could about the business and was taken under the wing of the former style editor, now editor-in-chief, Addison Montgomery.

I had been toiling in the copy room for over a year and was close to putting in my resignation when Addison came across some of my writing by accident. My goal was not to write advertising promotional materials for the rest of my life. I was responsible for creating text for advertisements not only for our magazine, but our website, emails, and billboards. I did make a good salary, but this wasn't my dream. I was working late one night, creating copy for next months edition and all the words were becoming a jumble and was turning my brain to mush. I took a break and opened a fantasy column that I had been working on and left it open on my desk when I went to the breakroom for a cup of much needed coffee. When I'd gotten back, Addison was sitting in my chair, reading my story and I panicked. I scrambled to explain to her what it was about when she told be to be quiet. She wanted to know more about me, my education and my background and told me a great deal about herself. We spent hours talking and before I knew it, she was grooming me and two years later, I had my own monthly column and weekly blog on our website.

I was in the middle of rinsing the conditioner from my hair when I heard the bathroom door slam open.

"You know, nobody reads the newspaper anymore. Why do you even buy this thing?" Cristina called out to me from her position in the doorframe.

Cristina had no sense of boundaries and often would walk in on me when I was in bed, in the shower and one time on the toilet.

"Says the woman who devours the sports section before I even get a chance to look at it. Besides, its one of the last vestiges of a bygone era not dominated by computers and technology. The journalist is becoming obsolete as increasingly more people take to the internet on Twitter, Facebook, and all these other social network pages to create their own content. Their information is usually free to the customer and any Tom, Dick or Harry can consider themselves professional writers and people like me feel ourselves getting squeezed out, and it's even worse for women as we are underrepresented" I say, ending with a huff.

"Geez, Steinem, take a chill pill. You make an exorbitant amount of money, live in an exclusive neighborhood, and have one of the most popular features in the world. You are the last person who is about to be squeezed out," she yelled to me over the running water.

I didn't get a chance to reply to her as the door shut behind her just as loudly as when she had entered.

I speed up my actions as I still needed to blow-dry my hair, get dressed, call a taxi and be ready to go by the time it arrived.

Forty minutes later, my hair is curled, and makeup done. I search through my closet and pull out a light and loose shift dress in teal, along with my four-inch, black suede sandals. I give my hair one last toss in the mirror before grabbing my Prada Esplanade tote, placing my laptop inside. When I reach the living room, I see Cristina sitting on the windowsill, smoking a cigarette, one leg folded underneath her, the other with her foot planted flat on the floor.

"Put that out. Those things will kill you," I reprimand her as I make my way to the kitchen.

I turn on the burner and take my travel mug from the cupboard and throw a teabag inside. I ready my oatmeal and open the mytaxi app on my phone and schedule a pickup.

"We're going to be late, Cristina. You're not even dressed," I call out to her.

"I'm giving myself the day off," she says, smugly.

"Oh, you get to do that?" I say, amused.

"They're afraid of me. I do what I want, Red," she bellows.

Cristina has been calling me Red since the day we became friends. I had gone through variety of hues from reddish brown to dark burgundy and was now sporting a shade called red velvet.

I step out where she can see me and roll my eyes at her, "Whatever. You know, they're gonna fire you one day."

"No, they won't. I have dirt on everybody. If I go down, I'm taking everyone of those eggheads with me," she says with pride.

My kettle whistles and I pour the boiling water in my mug and to the lip of the oatmeal cup according to the instructions. I add two sugars to each and am just in time as a horn honks outside alerting me that my ride is here.

"Alright, boo, I gotta go. Lock up for me, will ya?" I ask as I stuff the newspaper in my bag and exit the apartment knowing she'll do it for me regardless.

I hop in the cab and fiddle with my phone on the jaunt over to the offices on Madison Avenue. I check my Twitter feed, Facebook, and Instagram. The same applications I was complaining about earlier. I also see I have a few text messages. One from my mom who always texts me hello in the morning, one from my sister Alice asking for advice about yet another new boyfriend and one from a guy named George who I went out on two dates with.

George and I had been set up by our mutual friend Lexi, who works with me. Lexi and George are members of the same gym and bonded during cycling class. She said he'd asked her out but was dismayed when she told him she was already dating someone, but they did remain cordial and grew closer as the weeks went on. Lexi had told me about him, saying he was cute and nice and thought we'd make an attractive couple. The first date we went to a French bistro and it went well, George was fun and a complete gentleman but something about him just didn't excite me. I figured I'd give him another shot and agreed to a second date. This time I chose, and we went to a sushi restaurant. George for whatever reason, failed to mention that he was allergic to shrimp, and the evening ended in the emergency room. After that, I had to admit that there was no spark and declined an offer from him to try again. But George was persistent, and every so often, he would try his luck to see if I'd changed my mind. As usual, I deleted his message and would send word through Lexi to ask him to please stop texting me. George happened to be just one in a succession of men I've dated. I don't have a boyfriend currently, haven't had a serious one for years and frankly I don't need one.

Twenty minutes later, I pay the cabbie, leaving a healthy tip. He somehow managed to navigate through the thickest part of midtown traffic, getting me to my destination with time to spare. I enter the marble decorated lobby and greet Walt, the security guard and flash him my ID badge. On my way up in the elevator to the fifty-fifth floor, I finish my message to Alice, letting her know I'd call her later this evening. I find myself talking her off the ledge a lot these days. She's in her third year at the University of Pennsylvania and I'm afraid she's losing focus. I remember that period in my life and it being extremely confusing. So close to starting my adultlife, leaving the lack of responsibility and freedom of youth behind and I believe her nerves are getting the best of her.

The bell dings indicating I've reached my floor and I strut out, pull on the large glass double doors and enter my domain. I always try to exude an air of confidence when I walk in. I love my job and feel blessed to have a position which basically fell in my lap. If it wasn't for Addison and her belief in my abilities, I wouldn't be here right now.

I say good morning to Tia, our receptionist. She's bubbly and bright, fresh out of college and looking to make her way in the world. I head toward my office and address the usual faces as I pass by the cubicles where our new temps are already hard at work on their assigned tasks, then walk by a bank of offices where the life style, marketing and sales departments are located and wave to my co-workers.

We take up the entirety of the fifty-fifth floor and my office is on the other side of this enormous space. As soon as I put my purse down, I buzz Sarah, my assistant, to get me an outline for todays staff meeting and ask her to set up an appointment for me with my hairdresser. It's taken me some time to get used to having an assistant but with the increased workload that came with my position, I found it a necessity. I settle in and work on editing my latest article, so I can forward it to Addison for review and approval. I manage to finish with enough time to answer some emails, then gather my materials for our meeting.

In the main conference room, seated at the head of the table is Addison and surrounding her are Reed, Amelia, Teddy, Lexi, Stephanie, and Carina who oversee beauty and fashion, health and fitness, careers and self-improvement, travel, entertainment to include music, movies, and television, then celebrities and the society departments respectively. The room is buzzing with activity as we catch up on all our plans from the weekend. Platters of croissants, fruit and orange juice sit in the middle of the table and I see hands greedily grabbing for the fare. Thankfully, I'm still full of my oatmeal and skip on partaking of the buttery, flaky, tempting treats.

Addison calls the meeting to order and we settle down as she goes through her outline of notes, desires, and expectations for August's edition. We typically strategist and pitch ideas for editions three to six months in advance, so we go around the table and detail our projects.

Reed will be covering the Free Fashion on the Hudson Independent Designers Fashion Week Runway Show in July. Amelia will be attending the Total Health and Fitness Expo in June. Teddy has an interview arranged with Suze Orman, a certified financial planner who has a popular television and radio show. She has several books on the bestseller lists and is one of the ten most famous business women today and it was quite the get. Lexi will be traveling to Bora Bora for her monthly compendium for _The Broke Girl's Guide to Traveling on a Budget_. She would no doubt be taking her boyfriend Mark along with her as he was practically glued to her hip and outside of work, you rarely saw the two apart. Stephanie will be reporting on the High Sierra Music Festival in Quincy California and Carina had been invited to and would be covering the wedding of the year. In July, Prince Emmanuel of the Kingdom of Norway would be marrying commoner and famous American actress Lillian Banks. As for me, I covered anything related to sex and relationships and chose to devote this issue to a piece titled, _The Way We Fall in Love Isn't the Way We Stay in Love_.

Addison approves all of proposals and then we talk about finalization of copy for next month's edition. Addison would be having another meeting later to speak with the editors of our international divisions to discuss any changes needed for publication in their regions. Of course, we include current topics, hot trends of the day, and gossip. Carina is a beast when it comes to digging up the latest news on who's doing what, with whom and where.

"I'll be attending Saturday's launch party of Savoureux, a new brand of gin that's coming out and was the brainchild of Emma Armand the French pop star. You know she's been based in the states for the last year and is building on her popularity. It's supposedly marketed to upscale clientele and all of hottest celebrities will be there including, DiCaprio, Swift, Naomi Campbell, P Diddy and fingers crossed, New York's own, Jackson Avery," she announces in her distinctive Italian accent.

"Great," Addison says excitedly, "If you can get me your notes as soon possible, I can get it ready to rush for print."

"Sicuro, capo," she says as she always calls Addison boss in Italian, "I heard that Avery's planning on making an appearance and I'm going to try and get a few sound bites from him."

I make a face when I hear her mention his name. Jackson Avery is a well-known womanizer and man about town. He is often featured in the society pages and he makes me sick to my stomach. He was from one of New York's wealthiest, correction, the country's wealthiest families, and I found his persona stereotypical and boorish.

As usual, Carina catches my facial expression and proceeds to tease me about it.

"You know April, Jackson has expressed interest in meeting you on the several occasions I've talked with him. He says that it's remarkable that you, writer of a popular sex column and he, a connoisseur of sex and beautiful woman have never crossed paths," she says, a hint of playfulness in her voice.

"Pfft," I scoff, "He's the last person I'd want to meet. He's arrogant, spoiled and thinks way to highly of himself."

"How would you know? You've never spoken to him," she cries. "Trust me, once you get to know him, you'd love him. He's not how he'd portrayed in the media."

"You write the for the media," I point out, "so I can only go by the narrative you create."

She waves me off, "Listen, I have an extra ticket to the party and I think you and I should go together."

Before I get a chance to tell her what a stupid idea I think it is, Addison pipes in.

"I think that's a terrific idea, Carina. April, it's about time you mingled with the in crowd. Maybe you could even do a piece on him. He could give us insight into the male mind. Another angle on how they view sex and relationships, if you will," she says enthusiastically.

Even though I shake my head furiously at the suggestion, I know in fact it wasn't one at all. Addison is bold and takes risks and her concepts have propelled our readership to new heights under her leadership.

I cringe at the thought of spending any time with, let alone near him, but hide the disappointment on my face and remain professional, but I do shoot Carina a look that could kill.

We discuss a few more issues, do some brainstorming and the meeting winds to a close almost two hours later. I shuffle to my office and close the door behind me. I tell Sarah to cancel my plans for lunch as I just lost my appetite. I open my desk draw and fumble through it, pushing aside a granola bar and a 100-calorie pack of almonds, I pick up a pack of Starburst, rip open the package with my teeth, pick out the cherry and strawberry flavors and angrily chew.

There goes my healthier routine.

The truth is, I'm anxious but not for the reason people would think. I'm aware of Jackson Avery and who he is, and I've been avoiding meeting him for months. We've attended some of the same events, and I've managed to evade him at every turn even though we inhabit the same orbit. I'd attend parties, concerts, award, and fashion shows all at my company's expense and each time, he'd be there.

He intimidates me and believe me, that doesn't happen to me and I don't know why. Sure, he's gorgeous, rich, and famous, but that doesn't mean anything to me. I know a lot of gorgeous, rich, famous men.

Our eyes met at a party once and I felt as if I had been electrocuted. Those cerulean blue eyes stared at me straight though my soul and I was shook. It only lasted a few seconds and I can't explain it and it doesn't make sense, but he saw me. Really saw me and I'm afraid if I talk to him he'll learn my truth. The truth that only two other people in this entire world know. A secret guarded by my sister Libby and my best friend Cristina. A secret that I have been hiding my whole career and if my peers, my readers, or my boss found out, it would prove me a fraud.

I, April Kepner, one of the most popular columnists in the world. A so-called expert on sex and relationships, is a virgin.

* * *

 **A/N: Story title song – Once In A Lifetime by Beyoncé**

 **Chapter title song – Work It Out by Beyoncé**

 **Even though I included many of Grey's Anatomy's current and past character names in this chapter, many are alas window dressing and are only receiving honorable mentions.**


	2. Good Life

**I do not own Grey's Anatomy… $% &# it! **

Once In A Lifetime

Chapter 2: Good Life

My eyes shoot open and it takes me a minute to get my bearings. I know I'm in bed, in my apartment, but other than that, most of it is a complete blur. I rub the sleep from my eyes and tilt my head to the side to check the time on the alarm clock. A few minutes shy of noon, I groan then use my hands to help propel myself up into a seated position. I at once regret my decision as my head swims and I feel as if I am being pulled underwater. I swing my legs off the mattress and the coolness of the Brazilian walnut under my feet helps to settle me. The wave of nausea passes quickly, and I reach over to my nightstand and send a silent thank you to Mariana, my housekeeper, for the present she has left me. Next to a carafe of water and a glass, is a bottle of aspirin. I pop the lid, down two and follow with a swig of the refreshing liquid for my mouth feels like I've eaten a bucket of sand. Mariana comes in during the mornings and tidy's up the place, which doesn't amount to much as I'm a bit of a neat freak. The fact that she has done so without my knowledge wouldn't be the first time. Nor is it the first instance where she's walked in and I've had company in my bed. Mariana has worked for me for three years and I like her because she is discrete, finds humor in my shenanigans and overall is a nice person.

It's dark in my room as the curtains are drawn and again, I'm thankful that Mariana knows me so well. I rarely wake up before ten and it's not because I'm lazy, but because most of my activities take place well into the wee hours of the night so I try to get in as much sleep as I can. I'm a night owl, always have been, even as a child. While the rest of my family were deep in slumber, I lurked around the halls of our mansion, amusing myself by snooping through cabinets and drawers, gathering information about my parents and siblings that I'd learn to use to my advantage. I never used the details of my nefarious deeds to cause harm to them in anyway, but if there was an occasion where I needed to get out of a punishment or hold it over the head of my brother or sister to curry favor for something I either wanted or later needed, I had no problem.

I slowly stand and test my body for residual effects from my night on the town. Other than my head which is still spinning, there are no other aches or pains. I walk over to the window and open the curtains with a flourish and I place my hands on my hips then stick out my chest like a superhero and stare out the large floor to ceiling windows. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the warm afternoon sun and I revel in the sight before me. The view directly in front of me is of Central Park and luckily no buildings face me as I am stark naked. I rarely if ever sleep in clothes, a habit I picked up when I attended college. My name and my financial status afforded me the luxury of having my own room and rest assured, the multitude of female guests I entertain don't complain.

I live in a five bedroom, five and a half bath penthouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The 7000 square foot living space features private elevator key access, ten-foot ceilings, gourmet kitchen, private rooftop terrace with an outdoor grill, wood-burning fireplace, and a plunge pool. There is 24-hour doorman access, concierge and even climate-controlled wine lockers on site and the building is owned by my family, which is one of thousands that they possess. My family, the Avery's, own a real estate conglomerate with assets in the billions. The company was started by my great grandfather who took advantage of cheap land and unwitting landowners. He seemed to have a knack for knowing when a parcel would appreciate and over the years, we've taken a major stake hold in real estate throughout New York and surrounding tri-state area. The home I live in now was a twenty-first birthday present from my parents, or so they claim. I look at it more as a bribe. For years they have been pressuring me to take a bigger role in the family business and I've managed to hold them off for now, but they have become more insistent in the last months that I get my act together and live up to the Avery name.

I'm lost deep in thought when I hear a moan and I whip my head around to see the culprit. There, on the opposite side of my king-size bed is a tall, blond, slender, very naked woman. She stretches her arms up over her head then graces me with a sleepy smile.

"Reviens au lit, bébé," she says as she arches her back and her small, but pert tits aim skyward in an attempt to entice me.

My mind instantly translates what she says while also trying to jog my memory as to who this woman is.

Last night was the opening of trendy new club called Boulevard 8, in the Chelsea district. The club was the brainchild of supermodel and close friend Tikka. I've known her for a couple of years and though she travels the world on assignment, whenever she's in town, we always hook up. Then, the blond rolls over onto her stomach to give me a view of her ass and the visuals hit me like a lightning bolt and suddenly I remember who the mysterious lady in his bed is. Tikka had made the introduction between the two of us and as it turns out, she is a model friend of hers and we'd spent the evening popping bottles of Cristal and dancing the night away. I now recall leaving the establishment with her, my driver taking us home, plus lots of panting and screaming from her. I know she's French, new to the United States and seemingly down for anything.

"Baise moi," she croons as she gazes at me with bedroom eyes and gentleman that I am, I don't deny such a sweet yet salacious request.

I walk over and stand at the foot of the bed and she gets on her hands and knees and crawls toward me.

"Je veux ta bite dans ma bouche," she says as she slides her hand up my thigh then grabs hold of my cock then proceeds to give me some of the best head I've ever had.

My vision trained on the opposite wall as my hands are clasped around her head, I push her up and down in the same rhythmic pattern as she works her mouth and tongue around me. She's an expert at this as she takes me all the way in; quite the feat if you ask me because I am by no means small. In truth, I've had plenty of women refuse to suck me off saying that I was too big for them, but I don't hold it against them. There are many ways to please me and those that chose to stick around were taught a very valuable lesson.

An hour later, I step out of the shower with Sabrina? Sachi? Sada? Hell, whatever her name is and towel off then get dressed in a pair of sweats and prepare for what's left of the day. I politely toss her dress to her that had been bunched up at the bottom of my bed but avoid making eye contact.

I know how the rest of this scenario plays out. She asks me when we can see each other again. I tell her that I have a very busy schedule and I'm not sure when I'll be free. She says to me that she thinks we'd make a great couple. I tell her that I'm not looking for a serious commitment. She tells me that what we did in bed was just a taste and that she can bring me to heights of ecstasy I've never imagined. I hold back the urge to laugh and give her a compliment. One that's enough to soothe her ego, but not enough to insult her. Then I call her a cab, prepay the driver, and send her on her way. As usual, before the door closes, she kisses me on the cheek, slides her phone number into the palm of my hand and once she's out of sight, I toss it in the trash.

I know I may sound like a prick, but I'm not. The women I date or chose to have sex with do so willingly. I don't trick, beg, or demand anything of them that they are not inclined to give. I select women that are mature but who know how to have fun. I stay away from anyone under twenty-one, but I am not opposed to dating those older than me. I never date married women though I am continuously propositioned, nor do I ever date women who are friends with my siblings or recommended by my mother. I treat each and every one of them with respect and just because I don't want to make it long term doesn't mean I'm a bastard. I don't believe in giving false hope, but I make sure to leave them all satisfied and with a smile on their face.

I haven't been in a monogamous relationship for years. The last real girlfriend I had was three years ago. Maggie Pierce is a Dermatologist who works out of Lenox Hill Hospital and we'd met though a friend of a friend. We had been dating for about a year and I won't lie, I was in to her. Actually, I loved her, but it wasn't an all-consuming, I can't live without you kind of love, but it was love nonetheless. Then she cheated on me and that was the end of it. She tried to get me to take her back, but as far as she was concerned, I'd lost all faith that she'd wouldn't do it again. It took a long time for me to heal, not because I thought she was the one, but because I couldn't figure out what is was about me that wasn't good enough. I know I'm handsome, but I'm not vain despite widespread belief. When Maggie and I were together, I never looked at another woman. I showered her with attention and gifts, listened to her when she complained after a hard day's work and supported her every need. But whatever I did wasn't enough, and it took me time to realize that there was nothing I could have done differently. She cheated because she wanted to and there was nothing I could have done to stop it.

From that unpleasant experience, I decided not to tie myself down to any one woman; well in the nonsexual sense anyway and played the field. I don't do it often, but I do have one-night stands as evidenced by the lady who left moments ago. There are women I've dated for months at a time, but none of them had ever come close to being called my girlfriend. I always let them know that I considered what we had to be an open relationship and that they were free to date whomever they pleased. Yes, I still slept with them, but I'm not a fool, I'm always careful and use protection. The last thing I need is a sexually transmitted disease… or a baby. So, I've been enjoying the bachelor lifestyle, much to my mother's dismay and for the foreseeable future, I have no plans of settling down.

I check my cell phone and see that it's two o'clock and scroll through my missed called and text messages. As expected, there's one from my mother, Catherine, a call from Giselle, a frequent companion of mine and my homeboy Ben who I work out with sometimes. Ben and I don't spend a great deal of time together as he is married with a child, so his free time is limited. I shoot Giselle and Ben a quick text, letting her know that I already have plans this weekend and can't meet up and to Ben, I say that we're still on for our monthly Saturday tennis match.

I dread calling my mother because I already know what she's going to say. It's the same speech I hear every time we talk. When am I going to grow up and take my rightful position in the company? When am I going to stop fooling around with all these inappropriate women and find someone to settle down with? When am I going to realize that I have a reputation to live up to and that I am tarnishing the family name?

Blah, blah, blah.

I roll my eyes at the thought of another conversation listening to her drone on and on about the Avery legacy. I'll admit, I enjoy the life my family's money has allowed me to endure. The fancy restaurants, the formal galas, the VIP treatment. Who wouldn't want that? But I am by no means a trust-fund baby. Yes, we come from old money, but I earn my keep. I manage several of our business holdings and though I don't wear a suit and tie or report to the office every day, I'm good at what I do. But for now, I'm doing just enough to keep her off my back until I decide what's best for my future.

My mother Catherine Avery, nee Fox, is the matriarch of our family, CEO of Avery Real Estate and absolutely and undeniably fierce. She earned the title by working her way up though the company and impressing my grandfather Harper, which was quite the achievement in itself.

My parents met at a function while my mother worked at the fifth ranked real estate firm in the country. At the time, my father Robert was engaged to another woman, but he said when he saw my mother in her Halston gown, her hair done up so elegantly and a smile on her face that lit up the room, he knew instantly he was smitten. Now mind you, his fiancée, Emily came from wealthy family in the construction business and was a and was kind person, but she didn't have that fire that stoked his soul. He and Emily had met in college and he'd proposed when they graduated because he thought it was expected of him. It also didn't help that my grandfather had pushed him to do it saying that the marriage of the two families could create a dynasty. My grandfather valued business above all else and Harper Avery could be called many things, but romantic wasn't one of them. How my Grandmother Charlette put up with and loved him for all these years was a mystery to me.

My grandfather, though upset that my father had broken the engagement off, was immediately taken by my mom and her tenacious attitude. I think he liked the fact that she didn't take shit from anyone and Harper wasn't used to that. In the period they'd gotten to know each other better, he recognized the brilliant mind she had for business and started her at the firm. She worked hard, and while she had married my father less than a year after their meeting, she didn't rely on the name to move her up in the ranks as my grandfather wouldn't put up with nepotism in any form. Yes, my father, brother, and sister all work for the company, but they started at the bottom just like everyone else and had to prove themselves not only capable, but exceptional if they wanted to move ahead.

Most people would assume that my father would have been appointed CEO of the company once my grandfather retired, but no, that promotion was given to my mother. While my father had a head for business and numbers specifically, my mother was ruthless and always one step ahead of the competition. She managed to guide the company into new areas without use of shady dealings or backdoor politics. She was as my father affectionately called her, a beast. My father instead oversaw the Finance department, my older brother David, oversaw Sales and Marketing and my sister Brayden, who was the middle child, was in charge of Human Resources. As for me, my parents were grooming me to eventually manage Legal, with hopes that my Master of Science in Real Estate Law would come in handy. I know my parents hoped that I would be as enthusiastic about joining the company as my siblings had been.

My grandfather, though he didn't meddle in to the day to day operations, was on the board of directors. David, who is ten years older than me, is someone I look up to. Though we are not extremely close due to the difference in age, he is very protective of me and one of my biggest allies. He is married with three children and lives in a Renaissance-style limestone on 5th Avenue. It is one of three houses he owns, the other two being the weekend home in the Hamptons and a summer home he keeps in Cape Cod. My sister Brayden is seven years older than me and thinks she's my second mom. She used to call me her baby, as she did while we were growing up and always gives me unsolicited advice. Frankly, she can be a nuisance. She's constantly trying to fix me up with what she claims, 'is the perfect girl' for me and like my mother, can't keep her nose out of my personal life. She's engaged to be married to Mike Holden who is manager of Avery Real Estates' construction department. He's a decent guy, treats my sister well and my parents approve. As for me, I'm an oops baby. My mother had no plans to have any other children as she'd gotten the boy and the girl she'd always wanted. I was the result of a weekend getaway, many glasses of wine and a mother who believed her childbearing years were behind her.

But I know what people say about me. That I'm a playboy who spends most of my time trying to get women into my bed and living the high life. That I'm just a pretty face with brains to match. That all I'll be is the screwup of the family and won't live up to the Avery standards.

Yes, I enjoy the company of beautiful women but there's nothing wrong with that. I'm good-looking, but I don't use it as a crutch. Everyone in my family is attractive, but I've been blessed with a little something extra. As for not having any brains, I graduated Columbia Law School at the top of my class, so I can easily put the notion that I'm dimwitted to rest. But in reality, the people that say those things about me, the gossip columns that report on my comings and goings, they don't know me at all. I have my own dreams and aspirations. A life that I envision for myself outside of the company, but it's not one I'm willing to share with anyone right now.

I glance at my phone, bite the bullet and begrudgingly use speed dial my call my mother.

She picks up on the second ring and starts in right away with her spiel.

" _Baby boy!" she yells into the receiver, "Good morning, or should I say good afternoon."_

I don't miss the sarcasm as I respond.

"Hi, mom. How are you?" I say, thankful that she can't see my face because I'm already agitated.

" _I spoke with your father this morning and he said he hadn't seen you in the office this week."_

I'm not surprised my father had been reporting back to my mother. She is a great multitasker but when she focuses on a project, it gets her undivided attention. Right now, she's in the midst of obtaining a block of property along the Greenway Waterfront. There is currently a patch of undeveloped land which could mean hundreds of millions of dollars to the company if acquired. So that she didn't notice I hadn't been in is not a shock at all.

"I know mom, but I've been keeping up with my properties. I just choose to work from home. You know that," I tell her and try to keep the snarky tone out of my voice.

" _But it would mean a lot for you to show your face around the office. You are a gifted honey, don't be afraid to let them see you shine."_

"Mom, I'm not afraid. Listen, this was the deal we made. You and dad said you'd give me time. Let me figure out if this was what I wanted and for now it's working for all of us so can you just let it alone?" I ask her for the umpteenth time. We have this same conversation every time we talk and by now I could read it like a script because the content rarely varied.

" _Okay, fine. I'll leave it. For now," she says reluctantly. "So, tell me. Who are you seeing this week?"_

I let out a loud exasperated sigh, "We're not talking about this, mom. I told you, my love life is off limits."

" _But baby, I think I've found the perfect one for you. She's a Harvard graduate who works in finance. She comes from a very prominent family and was crowned Miss Black USA for 2016. While she's very focused on her career, she has told me that she can't wait to start a family. She-"_

"Mom," I say through gritted teeth as I cut her off and I know she can sense my growing agitation, "I told you. I'm not interested in anyone you consider acceptable."

" _But, baby boy, I can arrange for you to meet her. How about I invite her to Sunday dinner at the estate? You two can get to know each other and I'm sure you'll like her as much as I do. Your father has met her, and he says she reminds him of a younger me. She even favors me a bit."_

I bristle at the thought of dating someone that resembles my mom. I love my mother to death. She's someone I admire and not only because she's my mother, but because she is an accomplished businessperson. She is savvy, extremely intelligent, and formidable. But who in their right mind would want to date someone that was just like their mom, let alone favors her. Imagine getting intimate with that. The thought alone creeps me out and at this point, I'm losing my patience.

"Mom!" I shriek "Enough. I don't want to talk about this anymore. I'll be there Sunday, but I swear, if I show up and she's a guest at the dinner table, I'm turning right back around. I don't care how rude I come across and I'm sure you don't want to deal with the embarrassment."

" _Fine," she says after a brief pause, "I'll stay out of it and I promise I won't interfere again."_

I scoff at her statement because I know she'll hold true to her sentiment for all of five seconds.

" _Will we at least see you in the office next week?" she inquires._

"Yes, mom. I'll be there," I agree because if I don't, I know she'll hound me relentlessly until I do.

" _That's, my boy. Well, I'll see you Sunday at 6 pm sharp."_

"Tell dad I said hello," I say warmly.

" _I will. I love you," she says and blows me kisses though the phone._

"Love you too, mom."

I hang up and sit down on the edge of my bed. The last place I want to be next week is in the office surrounded by all my mother's lackeys. She has little patience for people that try to suck up to her, but that doesn't mean they don't do it. As for Sunday dinner, it's tradition for my parents, grandparents, siblings, and their family to get together and that my mother had to question whether I would be there or not is ridiculous. I know if I failed to show, the wrath that would rain down on me would be never ending. I don't really see the purpose as they see each other every day at work, but I know my grandmother appreciates it, so I always attend.

I look at my watch and realize that it's getting later in the day and I haven't eaten yet. I have plans to meet up with some buddies at Lincoln Square Steak at seven o'clock, but I need something to tide me over.

I open the refrigerator and peruse my options as the cool air from the Sub-Zero unit hits me in the face. You would think because I'm a bachelor that the cupboards would be bare, but Mariana always keeps a stocked pantry for me. It's a little know fact that I love to cook and many a night when I can't sleep, I find myself in the kitchen creating some new concoction that if I say so myself, is a treat to eye as well as the palate. I often try out these dishes on lady friends that I invite over for the evening and use it as a segue to the night I have in mind. So far, my skills haven't let me down yet.

I close the fridge when I see nothing that appeals to me and open the cabinet and grab a container of almonds. I figure I'd munch on something light but filling enough to hold me off until I eat later. I have a few hours to waste so I decide to get some work done on my computer. I'll answer emails, add some recent photos to my Instagram page, and plan out my itinerary for next week.

Unlike my mom, friends and associates I know, I don't feel the need for an assistant. I'm perfectly capable of managing my hectic schedule and hectic it is. In addition to overseeing the several properties for the firm, I am on the board of the directors at Clay & Paper an art gallery for up and coming talent and I volunteer once a week at the Boys & Girls Club. Also, being a reputed man about town is more tiring than one might think. Making appearances at galas, exhibits, business events and parties thrown by those in the entertainment industry requires a significant amount of my time. I am selective about where I chose to appear and unlike some people, I won't show up to the opening of an envelope. Much of what I do I keep secret from my family and friends. I'm a grown man. I'm long past needing their approval or their praise.

As I start up my MacBook, I scroll through a myriad of invitations I've received over the past twenty-four hours. There's one for a movie premier, a fashion show, and a charity event for National Urban League which I promptly accept. I as well as my family are proponents empowering other that are less fortunate and this dedication had been instilled in us early on in our youth. I delete the majority of requests until I get to one for Savoureux, a new liquor branded by Emma Armand.

I know the gossip rags always assume I'll show up for things like this and I waiver as to if I want to attend. I've met Emma twice, once at her concert Stade De France national stadium backstage and another time at a party Marc Jacobs threw for a gathering of close friends. I'm a fan of her music and I liken her to a cross between Gwen Stefani and Janet Jackson. She's cool and I like her aura, so I send my RSVP spend a little time taken care of some other tasks then close my laptop.

I figure I have a few hours before I need to get ready and the first thing I do is call my driver Max and give him the rest of the evening off. I have two in my employ. One who shuttles me around during the day and one at night but opt to take a taxi since the restaurant is less than two miles away. I'm already in my sweats so I head to my gym to get in a workout in.

Five bedrooms is a massive amount of space for me, so I converted two of the bedrooms into something more recreational. Other than my master suite, the other two have remained bedrooms and I have no plans to change that. I don't have a lot of overnight guests, not including the women I am currently seeing. The last person to spend the night was my nephew Reginald or Reggie as we call him. I'd taken him to see a Knicks game for his eighth birthday and gotten us floor seats. We sat between the ever-present Spike Lee and Caleb McLaughlin which excited him to no end because he was a huge fan of _Stranger Things_. By the time the game was over and got out of Madison Square Garden it was past eleven, so I let my brother know I'd keep him for the night and bring him home the next day.

I blast the tunes on my state of the art sound system and go for a run on the treadmill as the pounding jazzy beats of A Tribe Called Quest's _Electric Relaxation_ spur me on. I usually like to run in the park, but today I decide to stay inside. I set the pace for program at number four and set out on the grueling pace up and over the hills and valleys of an Ecuadorian landscape and the sweat soon pours from my brow as I take each step. I know it can be hard and takes effort but running is my favorite exercise. Outside of the obvious benefits, it challenges me, relieves my stress, and clears my mind. While I try to treat my body like a temple, I'm not opposed to indulgences. I do drink as evidenced by this morning's hangover, but it's not often to excess. I only imbibe when I'm out on the town and other than a glass of wine when I'm entertaining, and other then a beer, I rarely drink at home. I don't smoke but I'll have the occasional cigar and I have been known to partake in a joint once in a while. I don't condone the use of hard drugs as I've witnessed the destruction of people I know and the devastating effect it had on community through the kids I mentor.

During my cool down, my phone bling's and I see text from one of the guys I'm meeting tonight. He wants to know if I want him to pick me up and when I step off the treadmill, I shoot back saying no, and that I'd meet him there instead.

Alex Karev is an old friend from boarding school as are Shane Ross and Denny Duquette who'll also be in attendance. We made an odd group and to the outside world don't seem the type to associate and I'm sure many wonder why we were friends at all.

We all attended Ross School in East Hampton, New York, a co-educational boarding school. Shane, who was of no relation to the school, Denny and I had known each other since seventh grade. Alex, whom we didn't meet until our ninth year was accepted and earned a full scholarship. To say that our freshman year we were was contentious is an understatement.

Alex was assigned as my roommate and we no surprise, but we didn't hit it off initially. He didn't have the upbringing I had and assumed because I grew up on Park Avenue and vacationed abroad in places like Switzerland and England, that I'd look down my nose at him and took every opportunity to snotty remarks at me in front of other people. Me on the other hand, I thought he was a douchebag who wasn't worth the effort and ignored much of what he said. Even though we occupied the same living space, we'd go days without talking to one another. What I did notice was that I wasn't the only one to not take a liking to him. He had a small group of friends, but many of the other students would snub him only because of his circumstances and to be honest, I thought they might be a jealous. Alex was smart and didn't hide the fact. No, he didn't have the name brand clothes or the latest tech gear but were many could compete with him was in the classroom.

For the first holiday we were allowed to go home, I noticed that Alex hadn't packed. Against my better judgement, I asked him his plans only to be told to mind my own fucking business. The Thanksgiving break was short, and we were back at school a week later and as I looked around our room, I saw that it went pretty much undisturbed. Knowing I couldn't ask Alex what he'd done while I was away, I spoke to a mutual friend of ours who'd stayed on campus. He along with a handful of other students that stayed on due to their parents being out of the country proved me with the answers I needed. He told me that Alex didn't have anywhere to go probably because he couldn't afford the trip home. I felt bad for him because in my life, I'd never lacked the inability to get whatever I wanted or experienced such loneliness. He still hadn't made a great many friends and to think that he had to suffer Thanksgiving practically by himself was upsetting.

Over the next few weeks, I tried to connect with him and he appeared to mellow a bit. We'd talk about sports and hip-hop artists we liked, and I felt we were making good headway. That was until Christmas came. Two days before I was supposed to leave for the three week break from school, the old surly Alex reappeared.

He'd gone quiet in my presence and except for the classroom, he didn't speak much at all. By then, I'd had enough. The morning my parents had sent a car to pick me up, I told Alex to pack a bag because he was coming home with me. He looked at me like I was crazy for the longest time then shouted that he didn't need my charity or my pity. I looked at him square in the eye and told him that I didn't give a fuck about his background. I told him that even though he tried hard not to, he cared what people thought. I told him that I didn't think he was the asshole he pretended to be and that despite how hard he was going to protest, we were going to be friends. I then grabbed his bag and started throwing his clothes inside. He stood there for a moment, jaw tight and fist balled up in anger before he snatched the duffle from my hands, said fine, and prepared to go with me and from that faithful day, we've been best friends ever since and one of the many visits he'd made to my home over the years.

As for Shane or Ross, as we refer to him and Denny, we go way back. Ross' family wealth comes from computer technology and Denny's family was big in oil. I don't see them as much as I do Alex, but we vowed to keep in touch because of the bond we created in school and had dubbed ourselves the Four Horsemen. We took the negative attributes of the riders and turned them into positives.

Ross is the White Rider, the conqueror because of his ability to see both sides of the coin and is the most persuasive. He had been on the school's debate team and lead us to several statewide victories. Denny is the Black Rider, who balanced the scales of justice. He was the most diplomatic of us all and when our sensibilities failed us, he routinely kept us on the straight path and the most compassionate. Alex is the Red Rider because he is always ready to go to war and the most fearless. He was the one to stand up to anyone who tried to mess with us and when we were teenagers, it wasn't uncommon for agitators to walk away with a swollen eye. Me, I was the Pale Rider, the leader of the group. They followed me not because of any inadequacies they had, but because of my strengths. I am honest, confident, focused, and supportive.

They're all still unmarried though Ross is seeing a someone and has been for the last two years. She has been pressuring him to propose and he's not ready to jump the broom and so far, has been able to hold her off. Denny hasn't met the one yet and out of all of us is probably the one most anxious to start a family and like me, Alex is in no rush and as he says, is exploring his options.

I hop in the shower and take a long steam allowing the pulsating jets to massage my aching muscles. I don't know how long I stand under the multi shower heads but by the time I'm finished, I feel like I've been a victim of Chinese water torture.

I towel dry and check the time and see I have about an hour before I need to get ready. I head to my massive walk in closet and peruse my options. The restaurant we're going to is far from formal, but it isn't the type of place you where jeans and sneakers to either. I select a pair of tan chinos, a dark blue button-down shirt, and a pair of suede Chukka's to complement my outfit. I browse through my many watches and find one to complete my ensemble and place it all on my wood valet stand, then settle in front of the television until it's time to go.

At seven on the dot, I greet my friends who are already seated and after some manly hugs and high fives, we start right in on catching up.

Alex who's the loudest and most talkative of us all regales us with what's he been up to lately. I'm aware of escapades due to the two us of hanging out the previous weekend, but I still can't help but laugh at his antics because let's face it, he's a funny motherfucker. Ross updates us on his the latest with his girlfriend and we all shake our heads in sympathy at his dilemma. Denny tells us that he's met a great girl named Isabell or Izzie as she prefers to be called and is excited for us to meet her. She owns an organic bakery in the West Village and I can tell by the way his eyes light up when he talks to her that he is smitten.

We gorge ourselves on lobster cocktails, prime dry aged rib eye and a beer Alex has recommended, the aptly named Arrogant Bastard 25. We spend our time reminiscing and having us all together again takes me back to our days at school.

We got into tons of shit together; nothing malicious or illegal but could be classified as mischievous. Those were the years where we had our first drink of hard liquor as I'd had champagne and wine before. It was when we'd smoked our first cigarettes, a habit which Alex still partook of regardless of my requests for him to quit. We had our first hit of weed which was taken in edible form. It was made by a chick we knew named Tonya. She was from a family with a dubious reputation and there were rumors that her father was a major player in crime world, but she was cool with us. This was mainly because she was able to obtain items we couldn't. It was also the years we all lost our virginity; at separate times of course and needless to say, they were some of the best years of my life.

We ended the evening three hours later and by the time we ask for the check, I'm sure the waitstaff is glad to see us go. We were boisterous but not too annoying. I pick up the check as it's my turn and I leave a generous tip for the waiter and head home.

When I get in, I'm relaxed but not at all tired. In fact, I feel a bit energized and go into my office, dig out the key I have hidden under a stack of papers in the second draw of my desk and unlock the smallest of the five bedrooms.

This room is my sanctuary and no one; not my parents, siblings, friends or even Mariana have entered these hallowed grounds and the idea that I would ever allow one of the women that shares my bed to see beyond the outer walls is ludicrous. It is a place I go when I want to express myself and my passion. In this place, I can be the realest me that I am.

I haven't found anyone that I feel safe enough with to share my secret and truthfully, I don't know if I ever will.

* * *

 **A/N: Chapter title song – Good Life by Kanye West featuring T-Pain**

 **Jackson's resides at 1110 Park Avenue. Go to www. 1110parkave penthouse (omit spaces as this format doesn't allow use of websites in the text.)**

 **And don't worry, we'll be seeing Alex again. Oh, by the way, Denny, Alex, and Izzie… *insert maniacal laughter***

 **This is what Sabrina, Sachi, Sada; whatever her name is says to Jackson:**

" **Reviens au lit, b** **é** **b** **é." – "Come back to bed, baby."**

 **"Baise moi." – "Fuck me."**

" **Je veux ta bite dans ma bouche." – "I want your cock in my mouth."**


	3. Sweet Dreams

**I do not own Grey's Anatomy… they ruined it. Ruined it, I say.**

Once In A Lifetime

Chapter 3: Sweet Dreams

I lay spread eagle across my bed with a petulant scowl on my face. I can sense the sun as it warms me and filters through the slits in the blinds but the last thing I want to do is get up and ready for the day.

Tonight, is the launch of Savoureux, and I'm required to attend per Addison's instructions, much to my chagrin. It's not that I don't enjoy free food and drinks, it's that I know the one person I don't want to encounter is supposed to be there, and I am all a flutter with nervous energy. I am wishing for an earthquake, the measles, tornado flying sharks. Or, I can just lie here, wither and die, anything to get me out of having to confront him. Damn Carina for opening her big mouth to Addison about that extra ticket. I had planned to spend the day outside enjoying the weather, running errands, and lazing about. My job responsibilities don't require that I be present at events such as these very often, but when I do, it's because I want to, not because I've been forced.

I'd gone to Addison's office late yesterday afternoon in a last-ditch effort to try and weasel my way out of attending but was shot down. She told me that I needed to remember that I was a representative of the magazine and in as a polite a tone as I'd ever heard her use, told me that she hoped I wouldn't pass up the opportunity to get an exclusive with Jackson Avery because of some preconceived bias I held against him.

A passive aggressive smile on her face, I told her she had nothing to worry about and that of course I would do her and _Sasse_ proud. I walked out of her office and back to mine, closed the door behind me and shivered. I had seen that smile before on Addison's face, but never directed toward me. It was a smile that said, I have the power, I own you and I will crush you. I had to remember that even though Addison was my friend and my mentor, she was still my boss and that if it hadn't been me in there asking, I would have left her office with pink slip in hand instead of being scolded like a petulant child.

I turn on my side to check my alarm and see that it's almost ten o'clock. I tend to sleep in late on Saturday's, usually rousing around eleven o'clock, but today, I'm too wound up. I can't stop thinking about tonight. What am I going to wear? How should I fix my hair? What if I make a quick appearance then duck out unnoticed? I mean, technically I would have shown up and fulfilled my obligation, but hurriedly banish the idea.

Who am I kidding? There's no way out of this and if I know Carina, she is going to make sure that Mr. Avery and I at least have some sort of chance meeting with him, whether I want to or not.

I throw my pillow over my head and try to get a few more hours sleep when my bedroom door bursts open, and I don't even have to guess that it's my bestie who has arrived on the scene in her usual dissonant fashion because a burglar certainly would have been politer.

Cristina is like a bull in a china shop. She is far from delicate in her actions and her words and always makes her presence known. She can be loud, abrasive, and doesn't know how to hold her tongue. At the beginning of our friendship, I found her at times intrusive, overbearing and quite often mortified by her behavior. But over the months we grew closer, I have learned that her words, which she chooses precisely and never takes lightly, to be insightful and honest to a fault. She is my sounding board and my mirror, forever providing me with what is real when my eyes fail to see.

"Move over," she says as she pushes me to the other side of the mattress and climbs in next to me.

"What are you doing here so early?" I say aloud as I turn on my side to face her, "You usually don't show up until well after noon."

Copying me, she bunches a pillow beneath her chi, "Well, knowing you and your jittery ass, I figured you'd be up early, tossing and turning, anxious about meeting Casanova, so I came down here to ease your fears."

"You? Ease my fears? Huh!" I scoff. If anything, Cristina's presence only made me more anxious.

"Yes, me," she says with confidence, "Red, I have never seen you like this and frankly, I'm intrigued. Usually, you're pretty good with holding it together, but whoever this Jackson Avery is, he has you going in circles. So, come on, bitch. Spill."

I hold in a breath of air and puff out my cheeks, gesticulating them back and forth as I try to gather my thoughts and think of a way to explain what it is exactly about this man that twists my stomach in knots.

"We've never been formally introduced," I begin, "so it's not as if he's said or done anything to me that would be considered offensive or condescending. It's not his status or the fame that surrounds him, so I can't use that as an excuse. Yes, I know he dates a lot of women, but I wouldn't call him a womanizer, per se. Yes, he's often written in the tabloids as being cocky and vain, but then again, I've read articles that have painted him in a very positive light. He's never been lambasted in the press by former flames or business partners, so I know it's not that either," I expound as I list the reasons as to why I don't want to meet him and realize like I'm sure she has, that my objections fall flat.

"So, what is it then? And please, remember, that this is me you're talking to. I know when you're lying so why don't you save us both the time and the trouble and get straight to the point," she says impatiently.

I open my mouth to speak but quickly shut it again. The lie I was about to emit would have at once been debunked. I don't know why I am so hesitant to tell her the truth, but I am. I know that she won't make fun of me, but still by admitting what I know to be real, I'll no longer be able to hide behind this mask of indifference.

"He… he makes me feel things," I say.

"Feel things? What the hell does that mean?" she asks rightfully so.

I understand her confusion as the same misgivings plague me. How can I expect her to understand when I am also perplexed?

"I've had the occasion to meet Jackson a few times and at each opening, I backed off. I don't know what it is, but when he looks at me, it's like he's staring into my soul and that scares me," I confess.

"Aww, Red. You've got the hots for him," she says and sighs mockingly.

"I do not!" I state emphatically.

"Yeah, you do, and don't try to deny it," she says and bops the tip of my nose with her finger.

"But I don't even know him. I can't be attracted to him," I argue as I roll onto my back, cross my arms over my chest and pout like a spoiled brat.

"Well, that's one big fat lie. Of course, you can be attracted to him. Jesus, look at him. I'd let him bend me over a table at his command," she says jokingly, but I fail to find the humor in it as the mien on my face is evident.

"Okay, Red, I'm sorry, but answer me this and be honest," she tries again, "Do you find him aesthetically pleasing?"

I shift my gaze to the side, pout still on display and place my pillow over my head, "Yes, he's gorgeous," is my muffled response.

"How many articles have you read about him?" she ponders.

I place the pillow back in its original position and shrug my shoulders, "I don't know. Dozens."

"When you're in his vicinity, what's the vibe you get?" she inquires.

"Well… it feels like I can't catch my breath and the temperature in the room skyrockets a thousand degrees."

"Just as I suspected," she concludes.

"What?" I ask in wonder.

"You want to jump his bones. Either that or you're having a heart attack," she says then laughs uproariously.

I swat her, "Shut up. It's not like that at all."

"Bullshit. You're afraid to talk to this guy because deep down you know you want him and you're terrified to start something up," she says frankly.

"That's not it at all. Besides, I date," I contend.

"Sure, you've been on a few dates, but when was the last time you were in a meaningful relationship?" she queries.

I roll away from her, so she can't view my face and whisper, "Years."

"And why is that?" she pushes further.

"You know why," I respond.

"Yes, I do, and you can't let one bad romance stop you from finding happiness."

I'm quiet as I ponder her statement. I have trust issues and she knows why. I'll be the first to admit that I shelter myself away as a form of protection. Never allowing the men I date to carve a notch in my heart let alone on my bedpost and I aim to keep it that way. It's not that I don't appreciate the company of a man, it's just that they always inevitably expect something more from me that I'm not willing to give. Whether it be the ones who want to know about my past, the ones who think I'm a way for them to further their own aspirations, or those who want intimacy from me be it emotional or sexual, it's something that I just can't do.

Cristina shifts closer and wraps her arm around my waist, "Listen, Red, I know this is hard for you, but you have to let someone in eventually. I mean, I know I'm everything to you and I love you," she says in jest, "but I just don't we're made for each other," she says as seriously as she can.

I can't help but chuckle as I elbow her half-heartedly in the ribs. No matter how bad my mood, she always finds a way to coax me out of it.

"I see the way you look when you talk about him. There's a spark in you that you can't hide. I know you follow him on Instagram, Facebook and Twitter," she bluntly states and I'm relieved that I'm turned away from her, so my blush isn't exposed.

"Red, I want you to promise me something," she requests.

I crane my neck so that I can watch her, "What?"

"I want you to be brazen tonight. Promise me that you won't sit in some dark corner hoping he won't spot you and if he happens to approach you, you keep your judgments of what you believe him to be to yourself. Now, come on. Get up," she orders.

"Why? What are we doing?" I grumble.

"First, we're gonna get a latte, then we are going over to Christian Dior to shop for a new dress. Then I'm going to let you borrow these kick ass pumps I bought a few weeks ago. They'll make your ass pop. Then we're gonna come back here, chill for a while, then get you all dolled up for tonight," she detailed.

"I don't need a new outfit," I protest, "I have plenty in my closet."

"Yeah, I don't think so. I've been through your closet, remember? You have some nice stuff, but tonight, we're not going for cute, casual or in any way respectable. You're gonna be in a room full of hot women and you my friend, are gonna stand out from all the rest. No man in that place is going to be able to take his eyes off you once I'm done. Jackson Avery included," she assures.

I hurry to wash my face and brush my teeth, then throw on a pair of yoga pants and a non-descript top. I stuff my feet into my pink low top Converse sneakers and follow Cristina out the door.

We make our way along the avenue, my thoughts stray as she talks nonstop on a variety of topics. Inserting a few yeah's and sure's so she knows I'm partially listening. Cristina gets that I'm in my head a lot and has learned to live with my eccentricities.

As we stroll aimlessly, memories overtake me about the man that I have for years buried in my subconscious. Thoughts of him vividly reemerging due to, but with no ill intent, by my best friend.

Matthew Taylor was my first love and the man I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with. We'd met our freshman year of college in orientation and I was pleased to discover that we even had a few classes together. Matthew was an economics major and planned to gain employment in corporate finance when he graduated with plans to move to London, New York, Zurich or one of the other top financial capitals of the world.

Those first few months, we spent a lot of time together, usually at the library prepping for tests or meeting up in the dining hall to share our meals. Matthew was smart, kind, and attractive in that Clark Kent, Superman save the day kind of way and I developed a crush on him immediately. I'd dated before, so it wasn't like this was my first experience hanging out with the opposite sex. I'd try to subtly show him that I liked him but wasn't brave enough to state my intentions flat out. So, by the time our first semester ended, and we'd realized that we didn't have any classes scheduled together for the second half of the year, I resolved myself to the belief that he was just a passing fancy and we weren't meant to be. That was until the last day of class when he asked me out. To say I was beyond excited would be an understatement but little did I know that Matthew wasn't the man I thought him to be.

Matthew came from a big family and had three sisters and two brothers. Originating from Wilmington, North Carolina, he had a devout Christian upbringing that he said helped to nurture him and mold him into the man he was today. Responsible, respectful, compassionate and if he said so himself, an upright human being.

As for me, I'm not particularly religious and while my family attended church most Sundays, my parents never tried to enforce their beliefs on us, allowing us to choose our own paths the older we got. As for Matthew, he was everything a girl could ask for. He was considerate of my needs, was always quick to give me a praise and held true to his values, never expecting me to go further than I wanted to.

We'd been dating for two years when he told me that I was the woman he planned to marry someday and was glad we were waiting to have sex because it was always how he had wanted it to be. He wanted to lose his virginity and share that special life changing moment with his wife and from then on, my head was filled with a fantasy version of my future as Mrs. Matthew Taylor.

Little did I know and would soon come to find out, that Matthew was a wolf in sheep's clothing.

I lived in a dorm room with Josephine Wilson, who everyone affectionately called Jo and had since we were freshmen. She and I were great friends, not besties, but we had no problems with each other. It's not often that you find someone you're instantly compatible with and Jo and I found that we hand many of the same ideals. We'd hang out sometimes, hit up a party, head to a basketball game or lay out on the quad and watch the people go by. So, when it came time for room assignments each year, we gladly picked each other. Jo was a bit of a gossip and always shared with me the latest news of our friends, associates, and professors. But when it came time for her to drop some truths on me, I balked, and it had nearly and irrevocably damaged our friendship.

In confidence, she told me she had heard mumblings about Matthew seeing other women. At first, I thought she was kidding, trying to play a prank on me to see if I would take the bait, but her serious demeaner assured me that this was not the case. She said that when Matthew wasn't with me, he'd spend time with his frat buddies drinking, smoking pot, and screwing anything that wasn't nailed down. I wanted to hit her for spouting such horrid lies about my boyfriend. Fortunately for her, I'm not a violent person.

We screamed at each other for what seemed like hours as she tried to convince me, but I heard none of it. Sure, Matthew had been spending more time devoted to his studies and toiling at his part-time job, so he couldn't dedicate every waking moment to me. Jo and I though forced to share a room, stopped talking to each other entirely. I still went on in my Matthew induced haze as if she'd never uttered those words to me and would have happily continued to do so until the evidence hit me smack dab in the face.

It was about five weeks later when another friend of mine invited me to a party to help get me out of my funk. While I chose to refute all that Jo had said, it didn't mean that I didn't pay attention for any sign that what she'd said was factual, but Matthew had given no reason to doubt him. I never bothered to question him as he'd given me no cause to and to openly accuse him when there had been no hint of betrayal just proved that I didn't have faith in him or our relationship.

Beta Theta Pi, one of the more popular fraternities on campus, was throwing one of their famous shindigs. I usually avoided these parties like the plague because they tended to get rowdy. I wasn't opposed to drinking as I'd spent many a night praying to the porcelain gods, but having a bunch of overprivileged, horny jerks rub up against me wasn't my idea of an enjoyable time. Matthew had said he planned to work late and would take me out the next day, so I decided to take advantage of the solitude, call it a night, and enjoy a good book. That was until Leah, a mutual friend of Jo's and mine showed up, pried the book from my hands and all but dressed me and shoved me out the door.

We arrived at the frat house fifteen minutes later, me staunchly attesting along the way that I had no intention of staying. I'd have a drink, say a few hello's, then head back to the dorm only to be greeted by the sounds of bass bumping out on the street and my hips double-crossed me as they swayed to the rhythm.

What the hell I thought, I deserved to have some fun and my attitude at once perked up until I was met by the last person I wanted to see.

Jo stood at the base of the steps as if she had been waiting for my arrival and when I looked at Leah and saw the guilt clear as day written all over her face, I knew it had been a setup.

Whatever their plan, I didn't care and as I turned to leave, Jo grasped my arm and begged me to stay. She said she had something to show me and after she did, if I never wanted to be bothered with her again, she would make arrangements to move into a new room.

Angry, but curious to what she had to show me so desperately, I trailed after her as we passed through the raucous throng of partiers, past a group playing beer pong and up the stairs to the bedrooms. At the end of the hall, she paused, her hand hovering over the knob. She wavered momentarily, but eventually opened the door and the sight before me rocked me back onto my heels.

It only took a second, but I knew those shoulders, that back and those arms as they braced themselves above the female beneath him. His vigorous groans and her demands for more cut me to the core. Ignorant of their audience, it took them about a minute to realize that someone was there. When Matthew whipped his head around to tell the intruders to get lost, the words caught in his throat as he stared at me. Mouth agape, I couldn't make a sound. I should have yelled at him, told him he was a bastard, clawed his eyes out, but all I could do was break down in tears and run away. Jo and Leah fast on my tail.

My world had imploded, and I felt I had no one to blame but myself. Jo had tried to warn me, but I wouldn't hear it. Back in our dorm room, I was waiting for her to say I told you so, but all she did was hug me and let me cry until there were no tears left. My phone alternated from missed calls to pleading texts from Matthew for me to let him explain, but I was far from believing any tale he had to tell. So, I asked Jo to give it to me. All the facts that I didn't want to accept before and she shared with me in full detail all that she knew.

Matthew wasn't the choir boy he claimed to be. Not long into our sophomore year, he'd begun seeing other girls on the sly. He'd always chose those that weren't in my major so the chances of me crossing paths with them were slim. Apparently, Jo had heard from a friend of a friend that knew Matthew back from their hometown that he had always hidden his darker side. God, I thought, how could I have been so stupid. Matthew tried for days to contact me, but I told him in no unequivocal terms that we were over. I didn't need his apology and didn't want his excuses. He'd made a fool of me and now those glances and whispers that would stop when I entered the library or walked into a classroom all made sense.

I never saw Matthew romantically after that fateful night, and though we had a class or two together in subsequent years, but I never again uttered a single, solitary word to him. He was in my rearview and the cause of my trust issues. He was the reason I'd never let a man get that close to me again and I aimed to keep it that way.

By the time seven o'clock rolls around, I'm debating whether I should fake sick to get out of going. Cristina and I have had a long afternoon and I'd be perfectly fine with curling up on the couch and continuing our movie marathon. Currently, she's sitting on the opposite side of the couch, stuffing her face with Pad Thai, my portion left untouched as I'm too tense to eat. Carina texted me that she'd be here at nine with a car and expected me to be ready to go.

After we'd gotten our lattes and shared a chocolate croissant bread pudding, we took a walk through the park to burn off what calories we'd eaten. We then hopped the M train for the short trip to Midtown East where we spent an hour looking for the ideal dress. After that she insist I get a manicure and a pedicure because I needed to look my absolute best and no man wanted to be fondled by a woman with jagged talons for nails. We found our way home a few hours later, a copy of _Molly's Game_ from Redbox for our viewing pleasure and the food that is laid out on my coffee table.

Cristina slaps my hand away just as I put it near my mouth, intent on chewing on the freshly painted polish thereby destroying the manicurists hard work.

"Alright, Chica. I think it's about time for you to start getting ready. Get your ass in the shower, do whatever it is you do in there and when you're done, I'll help you with your makeup," she says all this while barely looking in my direction, her eyeballs glued to the screen.

I know there's no purpose in arguing with her because she'll end up winning this debate.

As I push off the sofa, exaggerating every move, she gives me a piece of advice before I head to the bathroom.

"Also, might I suggest while you're in there, you rub one out. Might help with the nerves," she says and snickers.

I don't bother to express my thoughts as I exit the room, the middle finger I give her is all the response she needs.

I take my time in the shower. Going over my legs and armpits even though I'd been freshly waxed two weeks ago. I don't want a millimeter of stubble showing up anywhere, and though I have no plans to have any man see my vagina any time soon, I gloss over that area too out of habit.

I wash and condition my hair then use the very expensive La Tulipe body wash my assistant Sarah had gotten me for Christmas, but before I finish, I reconsider Cristina's suggestion, think what the hell, couldn't hurt, and masturbate.

To my ever-grateful relief, it seems to have done the trick.

I rewash down there then step out of the shower, towel off and lotion up. It takes me about an hour to blow dry and curl my hair into loose beachy waves. I call Cristina who helps beat my face and when she's done, even I'm blown away. She gives me a smoky eye that makes the flecks of gold in my green stand out while the rest of the makeup she applied is minimal. She finishes with a peachy lipstick so as not to distract from the overall effect and just so happens to match my nail polish perfectly.

I check my phone and I have about half an hour left before Carina is scheduled to arrive and I slither into my dress. It's a John Galliano for Christian Dior newspaper print dress and it is the epitome of sex. It's tight, yet flirty with an asymmetrical skirt. It dips low in the back so wearing a bra isn't an option, but I don't worry because I'm proud to declare, my breasts are amazing. I throw on the five-inch, open toed stilettos Cristina let me borrow and spritz on some Candy Sugar Pop by Prada perfume then strut out in the living room for inspection.

"Well, what do you think?" I ask as I twirl dramatically, and Cristina lets out a low whistle.

I stand there under her scrutiny as she hems and haws.

"Well," I shout as I stomp my foot impatiently.

"I'd fuck you," she says emphatically.

I roll my eyes and am about to give her a snide retort when the buzzer rings.

"I'll be down in a sec, Carina," I speak into the com system.

I grab my clutch which is big enough to hold my cell, id, a credit card and keys, then bid Cristina goodbye, leaving her to her own devices.

As I trot down the staircase, she bellows through the closed doorway, "Remember! Have fun, Red! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

The driver is waiting by the entrance and opens the back of the car door for me. As I climb inside, I'm not surprised that Carina has already started in with a glass of champagne.

"Ciao Bella," she says then kisses me on both cheeks then offers me a glass.

I decline with a wave of my hand because I want to have my wits about me tonight.

"So, I want you to know that Jackson is expected to appear and again, he's mentioned your name. You are going to sweep him off his feet, Tesoro. Hai un aspetto molto caldo," she exclaims knowing full well I have no clue how to speak Italian, but I'm confident it's a compliment.

"Carina, as I've told you before, I could care less what Jackson Avery does or thinks. I'm only going because Addison made me. I don't plan on engaging with him and I'd appreciate if you made it a point to steer clear of me if he's around you," I try to say as convincingly as I can, sure that she hadn't caught the hitch in my voice when I said his name.

"Cosa sicura," she replies with a wink and somehow, I know, Carina isn't going to make this night any easier.

We arrive at the venue thirty minutes later and as usual, the press has been outside for hours in the hopes of getting a picture of every celebrity, famous and semi-famous that showed up.

When we exit the vehicle, cameras flash and microphones are stuck in our faces. I'm nowhere near as recognized as Emma Armand, the host and brand creator of tonight's launch, but I'm well-known, especially in New York City.

I hear calls of " _April, who are you wearing tonight?"_ and " _Can you tell us who you're dating?"_

I ignore them and their inquires as I walk the red carpet, offering only a smile and a wave. I may write about sex and relationships, but mine is definitely off limits.

We venture inside and to say this party is bangin is an understatement. David Guetta, the French DJ, songwriter, producer, and remixer is spinning the records and I know right off the bat that this party is going to be epic. There are two bars, one serving Emma's new alcohol, Savoureux and the most popular gin concoctions, then another that mixes signature drinks by the name of Demonic Stardust, Artic Seven and Fainting Wave, none of which I plan on imbibing. There are hors d'oeuvres catered by New York's best and Savor award-winning chef, David Boulud and my mouth is already watering at the display before me. But the strangest sights of them all is the Savoureux waterfall which is getting unintentionally used as a few of the more inebriated guests are bypassing the bar and heading straight to the cascade of gin and its manmade rocky slope.

Carina and I part ways as she doesn't need a chaperone, nor do I and I instantly recognize many faces and say some hellos as I make my rounds. There are promises to meet up for brunch. A request from a reality star for me to write an article about them. I chat with Orlando Bloom who was the subject of a piece I'd written last year after he granted me an exclusive on his breakup with Katy Perry. I'm propositioned to go to the last bathroom stall for a taste of the white horse, which I vehemently decline. Then finally I'm introduced to Rhianna who tells me she loves my column and she gives me her publicists info and suggests I give him a call as she'd be interested in me doing a feature on her.

I check my cell periodically, but discretely, not because I'm bored, but because though I'll go to my grave denying it, I wonder why Jackson Avery still hasn't shown up. It's close to eleven and while the evening is far from winding down, I'd hoped to at least get a glimpse of him to prove to Cristina and myself really, that this man has no effect on me.

Just as I'm resolved in the belief that he isn't coming tonight, I spy him across the room and before I can divert my eyes, he spots me too.

 _Fuck._

He makes a motion with his hand, which I disregard, but my eyes widen owlishly when he makes his way in my direction.

 _Shit. Shit. Shit._

I have to get out of here. Pretend that I didn't see him, and I craftily avoid him for about half an hour when I feel someone behind me.

They don't reach out to touch me nor utter a single word, but I sense a deliciously warm heat as it creeps up my spine and I know at once who it is. I say a silent prayer then turn to him daringly.

 _Goddammit. He's even more beautiful in the flesh._

For a moment, we just size each other up as the air crackles between us. I don't know what perceives, but I am struck by this Adonis before me.

He's wearing what I recognize to be a Versace painted print shirt, the top three buttons undone, just enough to give a preview of his hairless, caramel colored, muscular chest and two herringbone gold chains. His sleeves are cuffed up to his elbow and I detect how the veins in his arms protrude slightly. One hand is in his pocket while the other is holding a glass and I'm tickled by the idea that he is flexing for me. He has on dark-rinse denim jeans that if I must say, are snug in all the right places and I thank the heavens that he isn't wearing sneakers but a proper pair of shoes.

My vision travels back to his chest then to his Adams Apple and all I want to do is lick it. Even in my five-inch heels, he's still got three inches on me and I need to tilt my head back in order to look into his face and it's the biggest mistake I've made so far.

His jaw his strong and when he smiles at me, I'm presented with a flash of perfectly straight, pearly white teeth. He's got a neatly shaven, closely cropped beard and I have the undeniable urge to run the back of my fingers across his cheek just to verify that the hair is as soft as it appears. Though the lighting varies depending on where we are in the club, I can make out a smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose and it's about the cutest thing I've ever seen. Then I do it. I stare into his eyes with the intent of proving that he doesn't unnerve me, and I am shaken to my core.

His eyes are gorgeous. They are an icy blue now that I examine them up close and they pierce through my soul. They are sharp and clear and as I suspected, I sense that somehow, he sees _me_.

"April Kepner, as I live and breathe. You know, I've been dying to meet you for some time and now here we are, face to face," he says, his voice as smooth as silk. It lays across my skin and encases me like 1000 count, one hundred percent pure Egyptian cotton sheets. It's smooth and luxurious.

I want to say something, but I can only stare and my inability to speak amuses him as mouth forms into an indubitable smirk.

Vexed by what I am sure is his silent assumption that I am another infatuated groupie that is aching to hang on his arm, I find my courage.

"Jackson Avery. Sorry, I can't say the same," I say haughtily.

Though he is cultured and can handle himself in any situation; if his interviews are any indication, I am pleased that my response has had an effect on him and isn't what he'd expected me to say as his eyebrow quirks quizzically.

"Well, I must say, I'm dismayed to hear that, but I'm confident I can change your mind. We run in some of the same circles and I've often asked about you, yet we always manage to… miss each other," he says seductively.

 _Sexy jerk._

"I can guarantee, me missing you, wasn't an accident," I state boldly and cock my head to the side.

I know I'm being bitchy, with the expectation that he'll go away, but he's steadfast and doesn't waiver an inch.

 _It's infuriating._

"You know what? How about we start over again," he holds out his hand, "I'm Jackson Avery, and you are?"

I'm reluctant to take his hand, not sure of what his game is.

I slide mine into his and I think back to what Cristina said to me this morning, but of one aspect, I must disagree.

It's isn't a spark I feel when my palm touches his. It's motherfucking fireworks and I invoke Buddha, Yahweh, Shiva, whomever may be listening with the hopes that he doesn't feel it too.

"Cat got your tongue?" he asks when I don't respond.

I'm businesslike when I finally answer, "April. My name is April Kepner."

I present him my hand and gentleman that he is, he kisses the back of it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, April. Can I get you a drink?" he asks.

"No, I'm fine. Thank you," I reply, wanting to make sure that my mind is clear as we talk.

"So, _April._ Tell me about yourself," he inquires flirtatiously.

I narrow my eyes. Right now, I don't know if he's being purposely obtuse and I'm about to regal my story, when I abandon the idea.

"Look, Jackson. I don't know what you're playing at here. You know good and well who I am, the same as I do you and frankly, I'm not interested," I proclaim.

I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm a walking contradiction. Not hours ago, I was pleasuring myself to his image and now I want him to be as far away as possible, but again, he doesn't budge.

"So, you know me," he says, then insists, "tell me about myself."

I chew on my bottom lip because I know I'm about to step into dangerous territory, but I will not be deterred because my interest is piqued.

"Okay," I say and square my shoulders, "you're an entitled rich boy who's only goal in life is to bed as many women as he can. You're more concerned with the thrill of the chase then contributing anything worthwhile to society. You live off your family name and expect the world to bow at your feet. You're good looking but honestly, I don't know if you have a brain in that head of yours because you sure don't act like you do. I know you're employed by your family, but I read more about you in the gossip columns then I do in any business section. I bet you thought that I'd swoon the second you approached me, but I hate to tell you, but your Don Juan persona doesn't work me."

My description of him is rude, harsh and I know, way off base. I know he's done many positive things, but I have to find a method to push him away.

That charming, Duchenne smile he wears begins to fade and if I'm not mistaken, I've hurt his feelings. I wait patiently for him to call me a cunt, but as quickly as the frown came, it's gone. His expression changes to one of delight as he presses on.

"I like you, you're feisty," he says, and I'm dumbfounded.

"And let me say this, April Kepner," he says smugly, "I aim to prove you wrong."

I don't know how to react when someone from behind bumps into me and I stagger forward as our bodies collide.

 _God, he smells good._

The glass in his hand jostles and some of the liquid splashes onto his thumb. Peering directly at me, he lifts his hand and slowly licks the spilt gin away and I feel the wetness as it pools in my panties.

 _I hate him._

He swallows his drink, places the empty glass on a nearby table, them takes my hand and leads me to the dancefloor.

"Wait, wait, wait!" I yell as he pulls me behind him.

He doesn't stop until he nudges his way through the gyrating throng and we're smack dab in the middle. David is playing _24K Magic_ by Bruno Mars and he starts dancing as I stand there awkwardly.

He leans down and whispers in my ear, "What's the matter? You ain't got no moves?"

I know he's challenging me and I don't want to take the bait, but I'll be damned if I let him think that this White girl from a small farm town can't work my body.

I move, matching him step for step and I can tell he's impressed, as am I. His flow is effortless as he practically glides across the floor. Sweat glistens on his brow and want to swim in it. We dip and bounce through four more songs when old school hip-hop joint, _Remix (Ignition)_ by R. Kellycomes on and he shifts, stands behind me, and proceeds to grind.

Luckily, he can't see my face as my eyes bug out. I'm not offended because that's just what most people do when this song comes on as evidence by the crowd around us. What's stunned me is that I can feel his cock pressed us against my ass and it feels good.

Yes, I'm a virgin, but I've done things. I know what a penis looks and feels like. I've held them in my hand. Gave a few hand jobs, been felt up, but that's as far as I've gone. So, when he pushes into me again, I know instantly what he's packing isn't small. I can't help myself as I rub up against him and though the music is blaring, I hear a throaty moan as his dick twitches and I'm pleased that I could elicit such a reaction.

We break apart, Mona Lisa smiles manifesting when the tempo changes and a slow jam comes on. He doesn't miss a beat as he pulls me in and places both hands on the small of my bare lower back.

I find myself in a quandary. I'm overwhelmed by him and I want to shy away, but physically, I can't. Or rather, I don't want to. I still have my clutch in my hand as it rests on his shoulder blade, but with my other, I caress his bicep. He rocks me in his arms and I am under his spell as I rest my head on him. I note that it fits neatly tucked under his chin and right now, I don't want to be anywhere else.

He begins to make concentric circles along my spine and my nipples harden as I'm aroused. I'm sure their impression through the thin material of my dress and his shirt is obvious because he embraces me tighter and blows in my ear. My heart begins pounding wildly in my chest. It's thumping so loud, I'm sure he notices.

The music abruptly stops as Emma is about to make an announcement but we're both only in tune with one another.

When she starts to speak, I realize what's happened and separate, embarrassed by my conduct. I try to walk away but he takes hold of my wrist and his grip on me is strong. He by no means is hurting me, but it's apparent that he doesn't want me to leave.

He gestures for me to follow him, but I protest. Thankfully, Carina shows up and interrupts us.

She begins peppering him with questions for her write-up and she unknowingly diverts his focus from me onto her. I take the opportunity to duck out of the venue and hail a cab. Traffic is lighter this time of night and I make it home in about twenty minutes.

The first thing I do after I make sure everything is locked up is to grab a bottle of water from the fridge, strip down to my underwear, throw on my favorite oversized t-shirt and fall face first onto my bed.

What in the absolute hell was I thinking? My singular goal for the evening was to rebuff Jackson Avery. Prove that I wasn't captivated by him and I failed miserably. The moment he showed the slightest bit of attraction toward me, I fold like a cheap suit.

I debate whether to call Cristina and tell her what happened, and I know she won't be angry if I wake her up. She always has my back, no matter the time, place, or circumstance. She told me she'd give up cigarettes, while walking over broken glass, in a snowstorm to get to me and I assured her I'd do the same.

I swipe the lock screen and open my contacts when I hear a familiar buzz. I smile because I assume it's Cristina asking me how it went. Sometimes it's like we have telepathy. She knows just when I need her and vice versa.

I open the app and jump back in shock, tossing my cell to the middle of the mattress.

It can't be him. How in the hell did he get my number I wonder and it's less than a minute before I realize there could only be the culprit.

Carina.

 **Received 1:25 AM - Hi, April. It's Jackson.**

 **Received 1:26 AM - Hope you don't mind. Got your # from Carina.**

 **Received 1:26 AM - Had fun tonight. Enjoyed your company.**

 **Received 1:31 AM - Would really like to see you again.**

My fingers hover over the keyboard as I contemplate what to do.

Getting involved with Jackson is a big deal. Though I pretend to know the type of person he is, I really don't. I do find it fascinating that it took him four minutes between his last two texts to ask me out.

Could it be he's weary too?

What I do know for sure is that I don't want to become another in a lengthy list of women he's bedded. Except in my case, he won't even get that far and I'm afraid he'll dump me before that's even a possibility. Not that it's on my mind or anything.

I'm not opposed to having sex. Nothing bad has ever happened to me. My parents didn't stigmatize the idea and taught us the proper terms and how to behave responsibly if we intended to engage in a sexual relationship but expressed to us their desire for their girls to at least wait until they were over eighteen.

I'm not planning to wait until I get married. That is if I even do. So, there's nothing stopping me, except for the fact that I haven't found the right guy yet. My virginity is like my prized possession. It is the one thing that I own wholly and completely control. I can freely share this treasure with the person I love, whom I deem worthy at my choice. I decide who, what, when, where, how and why.

Considering what's potentially ahead of me, I must enter this phase voluntarily and with the knowledge that Jackson may be in it for a totally different reason. If Cristina were here, she'd tell me to quit being a pussy and say yes. That or she'd snatch the phone from my hand and do it herself.

I've been weighing my options back and forth for about ten minutes when I say fuck it and type my response before the realization hits me.

 **Sent 1:45 AM - Hi, Jackson. I'd really like to see you too.**

His reply is immediate.

 **Received 1:46 AM - Great! :- & **

He answers, and I giggle at his tongue-tied emoticon.

 **Received 1:47 AM - I'll give you a call you tomorrow afternoon.**

 **Sent 1:47 AM - Can't wait. :D**

That's the last of our communication for the night and I program his number into my phone, so I don't accidentally delete it. I open my water bottle and take a few swigs before putting it on the nightstand. I pull back the covers, place my sleep mask on and settle in.

The night had certainly taken a turn I hadn't expected but I'm enthralled by what comes next. I'm taking a chance and am elated by what the outcome might be.

I think about what I'll say when he calls. Where he'll want to take me on a date. What I should were and plan to go through every item in my wardrobe tomorrow to find something suitable even though I don't have an inkling yet of what we're going to do.

I feel like a teenage again in anticipation of my first date. The exception this time is that my father isn't here to hover threateningly over a pimple faced boy who's begun to perspire profusely under his overprotective, gawking fatherly glare.

I try to put it out of my mind and get a few hours of quality z's. I plan to do a first draft of my story for the July issue, _The Way We Fall in Love Isn't the Way We Stay in Love._ That'll give me enough time to run to the supermarket, pick up some groceries and leave me enough time to spare to await Jackson's call.

I know I'm getting way ahead of myself, but this feels different. I'm not sure why, but I have a good feeling about Jackson Avery and I can't wait to find out if I'm right.

* * *

 **A/N: Chapter Title Song – Sweet Dreams by Beyoncé**

 **FYI – When Cristina helps April "beat my face" this is a term meaning that a person's makeup is applied so amazingly that it makes them look truly stunning.**

 **The John Galliano for Christian Dior newspaper print dress was wore by the character Carrie Bradshaw on Sex in the City. If you want to view the dress under images, type in: Carrie Bradshaw newspaper dress**

 **The word bangin is not a typo. It's slang for high energy, busy, loud, and exciting.**

 **Italian translations:**

 **Ciao Bella – Hello beautiful**

 **Tesoro – Darling**

 **Hai un aspetto molto caldo – You look very hot**

 **Cosa sicura – Sure thing**

 **(I used an English to Italian translator, so if the language is incorrect, I would appreciate one of my Italian readers to correct me.)**


	4. Touch the Sky

**I do not own Grey's Anatomy… *big sigh***

Once in a Lifetime

Chapter 4: Touch the Sky

I sit here in the quiet of my darkened bedroom, the only light emitting is from my cell phone which I can't stop gazing at.

I'll admit, when April didn't answer my message right away, making me wait over ten minutes for her reply, my ego took a hit. I'm a confident man, charismatic, good-looking. I'm used to women fawning over me, so when I sent her those texts and saw the read receipt after each entry, I had proof she'd seen it. I'd expected an instant response after I extended an invitation for us to get together, but when there was such a long delay, I wondered if I'd done something wrong. The thought that I'd been rude toward her in any way bothered me. Our introduction was kismet if you asked me and finally coming together after all this time, I'll be the first to admit, I was shook. She certainly wasn't what I'd expected at all and to say that I'm excited about the prospect of seeing her again isn't even the half of it.

April Kepner has been on my radar for quite some time. I'm not a reader of _Sasse_ magazine but became aware of it through a woman I'd been dating. I had spent the night over at her place and found a copy of it on her nightstand. Curious, I flipped though it and came across her article, _Sex and the Single Woman: It's Not All It's Cracked Up to Be._ While my companion lay next to me naked and snoring like a freight train, I thumbed through it until I saw her byline. I'm not usually one to read fluff, but after the first few lines, I knew that this was someone who had something to say. She didn't paint the single woman as someone whose main goal was catching a man, her ultimate objective to marry him and have 2.5 kids with a house in the suburbs and a summer home in the Hamptons. April described her as a woman who had goals and aspirations of her own. Who could have the family and career just as a man did and shouldn't be made to feel guilty for it. I was immediately intrigued and after we met, I knew she was something special.

Women flirt with me all the time, but April was different. Sure, I felt and immediate attraction between us and she seemed interested, but apparently, she wasn't going to make it easy. I like that she challenged me. She didn't bat her eyes and pretend to melt at my every word and when she basically implied that I was a spoiled slutty jerk, I wanted to swoop her up in my arms, kiss her hard, place her back up against a wall and fuck her brains out. Damn, she was hot. I was hoping that after our dance we could go somewhere and end the night on a high note, but she ducked out before I got the chance to extend an invitation. Luckily, Carina was still there, and she was a woman who was charmed by my mannerisms. It didn't take much convincing for her to give up April's digits and to be honest, I couldn't wait to get in contact with her.

So, here I am now, it's late, but I don't feel like sleeping. After those few hours spent with her, I'm amped. Pumped with adrenaline, I take my newfound energy and try to expend it on something worthwhile.

It's too late for me to work out and I certainly didn't feel the need for any female companionship, so I grab the key from my office desk and unlock the door to my secret room. Even though I'm alone in my apartment, I lock the door behind me even though I don't expect anyone to barge in uninvited. I know that the idea of someone walking in on me is illogical, I live by myself and I never enter this room when I'm entertaining guests. Whether that be a member of my family, friends or a woman sharing my bed. This room is sacred to me and I'm not ready to share what's behind these walls.

I move around the space taking in everything before me. Paintings both realist and abstract. Sculptures made from a variety of media to include metal and clay. I even have some drawings and photographs I've taken, black and white my chosen medium. Most items are unfinished while the ones that have been completed are safely tucked away. The space is becoming a bit congested, but I don't know what to do with them. Hell, my family hasn't even seen them and I'm in no rush to share this side of myself with them. I'm not ready to show them to the world and I'm not sure I ever will be. I know it's vain to critique your own work, but if I say so myself, I think they're damn good. I'm not sure what I'm waiting on, but my workings will remain unseen for the time being. I haven't found the one thing that feeds me the inspiration to create my masterpiece.

I end up spending quite some time in my studio, the minutes passing by unnoticed as they always tend to do. It's two hours later when I finally emerge and crawl into bed, exhausted and as I drift off, I can't help but picture April when I close my eyes.

I wake at noon after a decent amount of sleep with a smile on my face having dreamt of ivory freckled skin, long red hair, moss green eyes and a dimpled smile. It's Sunday and I don't have much planned other than family dinner at the estate and there's no way I'm going to be able to get out of attending that. For as long as I can remember, we've held Sunday meals at my grandparent's home and though our family isn't huge on tradition, this is one ritual that is a mainstay.

I yawn then stretch and literally roll out of bed onto the floor where I immediately start doing pushups. I knock out two hundred then turn onto my back and do three sets of twelve repetitions of crunches. Now fully alert, I get up off the floor, peek out the window and gage the weather. At this point, I'd usually jump on my treadmill to round out my workout routine, but I'm in a good mood and elect to venture outside. The temperature is moderate this afternoon, so I throw on my Nike tracksuit and sneakers then head out the door.

My building sits right at the edge of Central Park today I'm grateful about the proximity. I've run through the park more times then I can count, making use of the various terrains and beautiful scenery. When people think of Manhattan, they normally picture crowded streets, pollution and rude concrete everywhere under their feet. But the park is majestic. There are thousands of trees in every color imaginable this time of year. Ponds, foot bridges and arches. The backdrop alone is enough to get my creative juices flowing.

Today I choose to run the loop which totals exactly 6.1 miles. I opt out of listening to any music and take in the sounds of the park, nature and people around me. I'm in my head a lot and in moments like these, I use the time to center myself. I'm not religious by any means, but I do subscribe to meditation. For me, it's not so much about spirituality, but focusing my mind to achieve clear mental and emotional thoughts. But on this run, I quickly notice that things are a bit different. No matter what how my thought process begins or how hard I try to align my thinking to one area, it always ends with the same image.

Positive visualization… April.

Specific thoughts or objects… April.

Concentrating on my body's movement… April.

Honestly, I'm baffled. I mean, I'm not the type of guy to get infatuated. At least that's not what I thought and it's certainly not the impression I provoke.

When I get back home, I winded and drenched in sweat after pushing myself hard the last two miles. I take a long, relaxing steam shower to soothe my aching muscles then make myself a protein shake to tide me over until dinner. I spend the rest of my afternoon answering text messages and listening to voicemails. Responding to those I can give brief response too, putting off until tomorrow those that are more important and ignoring then deleting people I don't want to be bothered with.

I have about twenty minutes before I'm plan on calling April, so I decide to do some recon in hopes of gaining a little knowledge about her. It's never bad to have the upper hand so I peruse her social network pages to see what information I can garner. She has a Facebook but barely uses it from the looks of it. Its main use appears to be to stay in contact with friends she'd met in college. Her Twitter account is a sampling of friends, a few celebrities, political figures, television shows and some other random things thrown in. It gives me an idea toward her leanings. She has two Instagram pages. One for work and one personal which is marked as private and I'm dying to know what she had to keep that's so secret. Thankfully, her work page is a goldmine. Pictures around the city, meals at restaurants, motivation quotes, pictures of her at events and so on. While all this paints a picture of who she is, she remains a mystery to me.

It's three o'clock and before it gets any later, I dial her number and she answers on the second ring.

" _Hello?"_

"April? Hi, it's me, Jackson."

" _Hi, Jackson. How are you?"_

"I'm fine. I hope this is a good time?"

" _It is. I've been waiting on your call. Well, not waiting. You said you'd call this afternoon so…"_

I can't help but snicker quietly to myself as her voice trails off as she tries to disguise her eagerness.

"I hope I wasn't interrupting anything?" I press on, not calling attention to her being flustered.

" _No, not really. Just taking care of a few things."_

"Things. Like what?"

" _I'm working on an article for an upcoming issue of Sasse about the MeToo movement."_

"Now that sounds interesting," I respond wholeheartedly.

" _Does it?"_ she asks me skeptically, _"Have you ever read any of my pieces?"_

"I have. You did a piece on sex and the single women I believe, that I found very intriguing. Actually, that's what made me want to meet you. I've heard your name around town on various occasions, so I knew of you, but I wasn't familiar with your writing I must admit. Sasse is not typically a magazine I'd purchase."

" _Oh yeah. Let me guess. You're the GQ, Men's Health and Maxim aficionado," she says with a giggle that I find endearing._

"Yes, but I also read Time, Esquire and National Geographic."

" _Huh,"_ she states as she ponders, _"So how exactly did you come across my article?"_

I clear my throat, hesitant on giving her the details. I don't have anything to hide and I don't want to lie to her, but she doesn't need to know that I had just finished having sex and picked up the magazine out of boredom, so I left out a few details.

"I was at a friends house and I spotted your magazine on the table and decided to flip through it when I came upon it."

" _A friends house?"_ she asks, and I can hear the teasing tone in her voice and it makes me smile that she's being so playful with me.

"Yes, just a friend," I reply and leave it at that.

" _Well, Mr. Avery, I can't say that you are much of a mystery to me."_

"Is that right?"

" _Yes, that's right,"_ she responds smugly.

"Now, I don't think that's fair. You assume you know me, and I can assure you, you don't, but I'd really like for us to get to know each other better."

" _We'll see,"_ she retorts _, "So what are you up to today?"_

"Me? Nothing much right now, but tonight I have to attend a weekly dinner with my family at my grandparents house," I offer freely.

" _Aww, isn't that sweet."_

"Are you making fun of me?" I question.

" _No, I'm not. I find it endearing. Not many single men would even bother to spend time with their grandparents, let alone make a point to go see them every Sunday."_

"Trust me, at this point, it's more of a directive then a choice and see, there's something you didn't know about me nor expect."

" _I guess it is. I get it though. My family is close, so I completely understand. I miss them."_

"They're not here in New York?"

" _No, I'm originally from Ohio. My mom, dad, sisters and our extended family are all out there."_

"You don't have any family here?" I wonder.

" _No, but I have a close nit group of friends that are like family to me, so I'm okay."_

"Well, I'm glad to know that you're not all alone. Now, back to me and you. I know we didn't get a chance to really talk last night, but I'd like to take you out to dinner."

I held my breath as she hesitated and for a second, I thought she was going to refuse me.

" _I'd like that."_

"Great," I replied excitedly. "How does Friday sound? I'll make reservations at Morimoto and I can pick you up at seven."

" _Morimoto? There's almost a six month wait to get a table. Our food critic even had to wait three weeks before she could get a seating at his restaurant."_

"I happen to know the owner, so I pretty much have a table reserved anytime I need one."

" _You know Masaharu Morimoto? Well, look at you,"_ she says, and I think she sounds impressed. At least that's what I hope. I don't want to come across as if I'm showing off because that's the furthest from how I want her to see me. For some reason I can't yet explain, I want to make a good impression on her.

" _That sound good, but I'll meet you there."_

I'm a little offended that she doesn't want me to pick her up. That's not usually the response I get. Then again, it's refreshing, and I realize in this moment that April isn't like any of the women I'm used to dating.

"Okay, then. We'll meet at eight o'clock?"

" _That sounds great. Eight o'clock it is."_

"I'm looking forward to seeing you, April," I state truthfully.

And when she responds, _"I'm looking forward to seeing you, too,"_ I hope she means it.

"Talk to you soon. Bye, April."

" _Goodbye, Jackson."_

A wide smile graces my features as I hang up the phone and a strange, unfamiliar feeling descends upon me. Yes, I'm eager to see April again as the brief time I spent with her left such a lasting impression and I can honestly say that no woman has ever done that before.

I check the time and see that I have about an hour and a half before I need to leave so I spend ninety minutes arranging my itinerary for the upcoming week and by five o'clock I'm downstairs as my driver pulls up to take me to the family estate.

Once we're out of the city traffic, the ride is serene, so I close my eyes and enjoy the ride. Besides, it's the only peace I'll be getting for the next few hours.

When I arrive, I sit for a moment, take a deep breath and square my shoulders. I already know how this evening is going to go as the sequence rarely varies, but as soon as my driver opens my door and I step over the threshold, I feel like I'm five years old again. This place has always seemed massive to me and even with my adult eyes, I feel like I've entered a magical world and am about to be swallowed alive by the opulence and decadence which surrounds me. Imagine spending your childhood growing up in a place like this which often felt more like a museum then a cozy three-bedroom cottage. To say running around inside was forbidden is an understatement. I guess that's why I took to my sleuthing. Both David and Braylen were too old to play with me, so I had to find other ways to entertain myself. Truthfully, I could have gotten away with murder as the staff were willing accomplices to my nefarious deeds. The ladies thought I was as cute as a button while the men appreciated my desire to buck the system. If it weren't for them, the days that I did spend here would have been miserable.

The first person that greets me in the main hall is my father and brother. My father is an affable man, the walk softly but carries a big stick kind of guy. He and my mother seem like polar opposites, yet they manage to make their marriage work. Don't get me wrong, my dad isn't meek by any means, it's just that my mother is strong-willed yet somehow, he's managed to tame that fire within her. And believe me, she only does it for him.

My brother is the more serious of the three children. He's always been that way and he'd be hard-pressed to change. He's settled in his ways and if I can recall, he'd always been more astute then his age portrayed. Being then years older than me, we rarely spent time together in our youth. He was already off to boarding school as was my sister by the time I was born and on weekends and holidays when they would return home, their focus surely wasn't to entertain me.

By the look on his face, I know my brother is about to dive into his spiel about how I should take on a more active role in the family business, a tirade usually given by my mother when I'm bum-rushed by two tiny humans who attack me around the knees.

"Hi, Uncle Jackson!" the voices say in unison.

David's six-year-old twin daughters, Annalise and Tegan are spitting images of their mother, Sophie and just as lovely as she is. Following them is his son, Reggie who greets me as usual with our own specially devised dap. He tells me all the time how I'm his favorite uncle, being that his mother has three brothers of her own and though I have no plans in the near future to have any children, if I did, I'd want one to be just like him.

As we all head toward the dining room, I can hear my mother, my sister and grandfather deep in conversation. I don't have to guess what the topic is as it's probably one of two things. The family business or her upcoming nuptials. I make it a habit to stay clear of both.

Rounding out the trio is Brayden's fiancé, Mike and David's wife, Sophie. They've wisely opted to steer clear and have created their own tête-á-tête. Moments later, my grandmother enters from the kitchen, but, entered isn't quite the right word. She sort of glides through. My grandmother always felt ethereal to me and I assure you, her coming from the kitchen is not because she'd been cooking. More than likely she is giving the staff instruction on how diner was to be presented. She's very formal in that way and she has no plans on changing. She greets me as she normally does with a kiss on the cheek and an admonishment for not visiting her often enough. She rarely goes to the city anymore as she considers it gauche, only enters for special events such as opening season of the Metropolitan Opera. Otherwise, she'd rather stick to her tea parties and social events in Greenwich.

As we settle in at the lengthy and ornate dining table and partake of the sumptuous meal set before us, it doesn't take long for talk to turn once again to real estate. My grandfather, parents, bother and Mike discuss possible acquisitions while Sophie and Brayden are engaged in in-depth discussion about the Prada's new spring line. The kids find their own ways to amuse themselves and as usual I tune them all out.

It's not that I hate the family business, my heart's just not in it. I exceed at the tasks they present to me, but my mother wants me to take on a larger role. I'm managed to avoid committing to anything more than the time I've allotted per my agreement with them, but I fear her patience in wearing thin.

As we dine on rack of lamb, I offer up a few yes' and un-huh's to give the impression that I at least care. I'm no fool. I know that my lavish life style is contingent upon me at least playing apart in this farce of a career they've crafted for me. It's not like they would cut me off if I were honest with them, but I'm sure my standing would be greatly diminished. After dinner drinks are customary and it's then that we finally catch up with each other's lives. My grandparent's main activity these days revolve around the country club and golf. My parents don't offer much but instead lavish their attention on my nieces and nephew. David's kids will be out of school in the next few months, so he and his wife are planning to take a weeklong vacation to Switzerland to ski before enrolling them in the elusive Little Wonder day camp for children in New York for the remainder of the summer. Brayden and Mike's wedding is set for September and they tell us how they are finalizing the last details before RSVP's are to be sent out. Then as expected, all eyes shift towards me and I already know what's going to come out of their mouths before they utter a word.

" _When are you going to get serious about your career and fully devote yourself to the company?"_

" _When are you going to get serious about a woman and finally settle down instead of parading around town like a playboy?"_

" _I have the perfect woman I think you should meet."_

" _It's time for you to grow up and take on some real responsibilities."_

I close my eyes and groan internally as their voices all meld into one. It's the same rhetoric I've had to listen to repeatedly and the song never changes. I used to speak up for myself and try to defend my lifestyle and choices. Explain why I do what I do but I found it was like talking to six equally minded, brown and blue-eyed brick walls. So, by the time I down my last drink, I bolt out of there like my ass is on fire and head back home to some much-needed solitude. Unfortunately, it's not what I'm afforded as a familiar face greets me in the lobby of my apartment building.

Sabrina.

I thought I'd seen the last of her when I deposited her in a cab Friday morning. I never did call her, tossing her number away in the trash bin right after she deposited it in my hand and I would have assumed she'd taken the hint and understood that what happened between us was a onetime event. So, to see her here waiting for me like we'd had planned to meet is unnerving.

"Sabrina. What are you doing here?"

"Hello, my sweet," she answers with her French accent.

"I was supposed to fly out to Miami this evening for a photo shoot tomorrow evening, but I missed my flight and the next one isn't until the morning and I don't really know anyone else in the city," she purrs.

Her hands braced possessively on my chest, she practically paws at me and I'm already regretting sleeping with her. I know her type and I'm sure she'd have no problem with making a scene. This is quite awkward for me. I'm a model tenant and while I don't have a bevy of beauties strolling through the lobby, one can't help but notice that I am often in the company of a gorgeous woman. So, to avoid any ugliness, which somehow always manages to end up in the tabloids, I reluctantly take her upstairs with me.

Once we're behind closed doors, I question her reasoning.

"Sabrina, you seem like a nice person, but I don't know you and I don't appreciate you showing up at my place unannounced," I pronounce.

If it's one thing that I am, it's that I'm upfront with the women I date or sleep with. I have no intention of having sex with Sabrina again and I want to make myself perfectly clear on that point.

"Please don't be angry with me, mon amour. I had no where else to go and yours is the only address I could remember. My girlfriends all made the flight and I was staying with one of them. She didn't leave me a key to get back into her loft and I couldn't afford a hotel room for the night."

I'm sure the story she's feeding me is bullshit, but I don't have it in my heart to kick her back out on the street. What I do is offer her the use of a guestroom and the resulting pout I receive does nothing to sway me. I have no intention of inviting her into my bed and to guarantee that whatever devious plan she had cooked up in her mind goes astray, I bid her goodnight and lock my bedroom door for good measure.

I'm awaked the next morning by a familiar sound. Mariana is already here and has started her duties. I get out of bed intent on starting my day off at a decent hour for once. I promised my mother that she'd see me in the office this week and I figure I might as well do it today. I'll stay long enough for the staff to get a good look at me and know that I still exist and long enough to appease my very demanding mother.

I unlock my door and make a beeline for the room Sabrina slept in because I want her out as soon as possible. I don't want her to feel in any way comfortable so when I see that she's very much naked and still asleep, I rouse her by pushing her shoulder. She groggily asks me what time it is, and my response is to ask her about her flight. I tell her that she's welcome to a shower, some breakfast and I call an Uber to pick her up at nine, so she makes it to her plane on time. By the time she's ready to leave, I have the bag she carried with her last night deposited by the front door and she surprises me with an unwanted kiss on the lips plus a vow to come see me the next time she's in town.

I hustle out the door not long after she leaves in an attempt to at least show up to the Avery offices at a respectable hour. I get there at ten after a few hellos, go to my office which surprisingly isn't caked in a layer of dust considering the amount of time I spent actually using it. A few people wave to me as they pass by my open door or pop in to chat, but they mainly leave me to myself. I'm sure it's a shock to see me at all as they're more apt to see a flying monkey then catch me at my desk for more than a few hours a week. I end up spending most of the day working on several of the properties I oversee and overall the hours pass by uneventfully. I end up not seeing my mother at all as she's wrapped up in whatever she's doing and quite frankly, I can't wait for the day to be done.

Before I know it, I'm home again and just as the day had been, the rest of the week passes by in a blur.

On Tuesday I spend a few hours working from home then head over to the Boys and Girls Club after school lets out to spend some hours volunteering. On Wednesday I have a meeting at Clay & Paper to discuss fund raising opportunities and outreach to local artists in the community. Thursday is spent finalizing some real estate holdings before I head out to meet the fellas for drinks and before I know it, it's Friday. Date night.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been anticipating this evening with April. She's been on my mind off and on throughout the preceding days and tonight, I take extra care when getting myself ready for our date. A fresh new cut and shave from my barber and a new shirt, slacks and shoes from Hugo Boss.

I already have a table reserved for us, but I get there early anyway in anticipation of her arrival. When I think about it, I feel a bit silly. It's almost like I'm going on my first ever date and I hope that my nervousness doesn't show. I don't know anything personal about April. She could be a raving lunatic for all I know, but somehow, I know she's the complete opposite. I look at my watch and see that it's almost eight and she should be arriving shortly and the moment she enters the restaurant I can sense it.

I'm drawn to her like a beacon in the night sky. I can't take my eyes off her. She is absolutely stunning. She's wearing a royal blue, off-the-shoulder dress that hugs her subtle curves in all the right places. Her hair is parted in the middle so that her red hair hangs straight down but what stands out the most are her ruby red lips and I am yearning for a taste.

"Hi," I say to her, as I approach her at the entrance, my voice cracking like a prepubescent teen.

"Hi, Jackson," she replies sweetly.

Without hesitation, I take her hand in mine and led her to our table.

"Wow, this place is amazing. I never thought I'd see the inside of it anytime soon," she states in awe.

"I think you look amazing," I say to her as a subtle blush creeps across her cheeks.

"Thank you," she offers shyly, "I hope you weren't waiting long."

I decide to lie, "No, I just got here actually and if you don't mind, I already ordered for us."

A strange look crosses her face and I'm worried that I've already messed up. April definitely doesn't seem the type to let a man make decisions for her and that was far from my intention. So, in an attempt to correct my faux pas, I clarify my actions.

"It was recommended to me by Masaharu that we order Morimoto Omakase which is the chef's choice. It's a multicourse tasting menu and I figured it would give us a sampling of the best that the menu has to offer," I declare and wait patiently as she considers my explanation and when her features soften, I relax.

"That sounds wonderful, as long as you let me select the wine," she says adamantly.

"I'm fine with that," I respond in agreement, "So, April Kepner, tell me about yourself."

"Oh, so we're diving right in, aren't we?" she asks cheekily.

"I don't believe in wasting time and I want to know everything about you," I say boldly.

"Are you sure about that? You might now like what you learn," she says cautiously.

She's testing me. I like it.

"I doubt that, but I'll take my chances."

"Well, I originally grew up in Ohio and I'm the second oldest of four sisters. My father is a farmer and my mother an elementary school teacher. I attended the University of Virginia and came to New York with nothing but a dream. Barely a cent to my name, I started at Sasse as a junior copywriter and became good friends with the editor. I worked my way up from the bottom to my position I hold now and look forward to expanding my journalistic endeavors over the next few months."

I stare at her, my mouth slightly parted and I can't help but chuckle. "April, I don't want your resume, I want to know about you. What do you do for fun? What are your passions? What makes you laugh? What makes you cry because I want to make sure I'm the man that never does that. You can be yourself around me. I swear, I don't bite," I say, but omit the part where I ask her unless she wants me too.

Her entire being seems to loosen at this point and opens up to me. She doesn't tell me any of her darkest secrets, but she lets me in. She mentions her love of animals and how she misses her horses at home. How she's been thinking about getting a cat but with her hectic schedule isn't sure that's the best idea. She tells me how she loves to run, and I can picture her in a pair of tiny pink shorts, ponytail bobbing away as she runs to the songs of Taylor Swift. She tells me about Cristina who has become like a sister to her and the odd way in which they met and became best friends. She tells more about the close relationships she's developed with her neighbors and coworkers who are like family to her, but thankfully steers clear of any boyfriends she's had.

As she speaks, I watch her intently. The way her eyes light up when she talks about her love of writing. The way she smiles when she tells me the about the personalities of her coworkers. How her hand gestures when mentioning how she loves living in the city and how eclectic it is as compared to Ohio, and as I sit there and take in all she's willing to offer, I can help but be mesmerized by her.

April is smart, talented, funny and very beautiful.

By the time our food arrives she realizes that she's been talking nonstop.

"Oh my god. Did I just monopolize the conversation? You must think I'm a blathering idiot. I swear, I usually don't talk this much. Especially about myself. I don't want to come across as arrogant, I just feel… comfortable around you, if that makes any sense" she explains as her eyelashes flutter and he bows her head in shame.

"Hey, there's no need for you to be embarrassed. I love hearing you talk and you're far from an idiot. I told you I wanted to know about you and this is exactly what I meant. Besides, I'm the one who's supposed to be arrogant, remember?" I say in jest trying to ease her discomfort.

Her mood brightens and as our food arrives and we begin to dine, I take over the conversation. I'm sure she knows my history, at this point, who doesn't? She's not the type of women who'd be impressed by my wealth, the celebrities I hang with or stature, so I regal her with stories about my youth. I tell her about my formative years in boarding school. About the Four Horsemen and all the trouble we'd gotten into during our formative years. I share with how I volunteer my time to various causes, but don't mention my seat on the board at Clay & Paper or that I am an artist myself.

"So, you spend time within the community and share your experiences with the disenfranchised youth. I think that's admirable, Jackson, but I'm curious to know why haven't heard more about this side of you?" she asks in wonder.

"It's not something I do to seek publicity or favor. Most of the kids I work with have no clue who I am, and they couldn't care less. I just think it's important for those who have more to share with those who don't. It's not always about the monetary value of things. It's your experiences, your time, the life lessons you impart on them, showing them that people do care and that they are of value on matter their circumstances."

When she gazes at me speechless, I have to ask, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm stunned. Jackson Avery, I don't know you at all," she proclaims.

I press on, "Is that a good thing?"

"It's a very good thing," she replies, happily.

We talk more about this and that. Hobbies that we have. Places that we frequent. How she's yet to see the musical Hamilton and I make a mental note to get tickets because after tonight, there's no way in hell I'm not asking her out on another date.

Our time together seems to go by far too quickly and as we end our evening, I take a chance and ask her if it would be okay if I took her home. I know she was adamant that we meet here tonight, but I want to spend more time with her and the thirty or so minutes it'll take to get through traffic is just fine with me.

I hold the car door open for her and climb after and my eyes are instantaneously drawn to her legs. The dress has crept up several inches as she's seated so that the hem now rests midthigh. I try my best to be discreet as I stare at her creamy skin, but all I want to do is reach over and caress her svelte legs. I don't though because if I'm not mistaken her posture appears rigid. It's not that she cowered over in the corner, but even though she's smiling, her body language is screaming hands off which is a clear signal to me to keep my dirty thoughts to myself. I confess though, I am perplexed. From how we danced up against each another at the party last weekend I thought she'd be more open to some heavy petting. The last thing I want to do after such a perfect evening is make her feel ill at ease with me, so I listen to her silent cues and we engage in light banter on the way back to her place.

When the driver stops in front of her brownstone, instead of him opening the door for her, I get out. I follow her up the steps to the entry door but stop on the stair before the main landing.

Key in hand, she turns to face me and if I'm not mistaken, I glimpse a something in her eyes. I don't know if it's uncertainty or fear, but it doesn't last long.

My mind automatically figures that she'd assumed I'd expect her to ask me up or that I would make the suggestion myself.

I have no intention of doing either.

"I had a really nice time tonight, Jackson," she tells me and by the look on her face, her words are true.

"Me too," I reply, just as earnestly, "I know this might be soon, but I'd like to take you out again."

She answers me quickly, "I'd like that."

We both stand their staring at each other like dopes before she utters, "I guess, I'd better head up then."

"Yeah, okay. Um, April…" I start to say.

"Yes," she responds with bated breath.

The combination of the streetlights and the moon bathe her in an iridescent glow and I have to stuff my hands in my pockets to resist the urge to wrap them around her waist and pull her close. But fuck it, I'm going to take a chance anyway and hope that she doesn't kick me in the balls after.

I lean in close and though my aim is headed toward her red, full, perfect lips I change direction and plant a gentle kiss on her soft cheek. I'm not sure if I do it consciously but I know that the first time I kiss April. I mean really kiss her, I don't want it to be here and even though it's night, I can clearly see her blush as I pull back from her.

"Goodnight, Jackson."

"Goodnight, April."

She waves goodbye to me and I waggle my fingers at her as I wait for her to enter her building safely then turn to my awaiting town car, a self-satisfied smile in place. April is unlike any woman I've been with in… ever and I am taken with her. She is literally a breath of fresh air.

When I get home, I hurriedly head to my bedroom, take off my clothes and change into a t-shirt and sweat pants. I've been stricken with inspiration and I want to take advantage of the momentum I'm feeling as it surrounds me.

I think at last, I've found my muse.

* * *

 **A/N: Story title song – Touch the Sky by Kanye West**

 **FYI – When Jackson talks about he and his nephew giving each other "dap" this term refers to a greeting which consists of multiple hand movements.**


	5. Best Thing I Never Had

**I do not own Grey's Anatomy… apparently, no one does.**

Once In A Lifetime

Chapter 5: Best Thing I Never Had

I stood just beyond the closed door after Jackson bid me goodnight and peeked out at him as he headed for his car and I can't stop ogling. His hands are shoved in his pockets as he appears to almost float down the stairs at a carefree pace. If this were a 1940's musical, I'd expect him to break out in song and dance any minute now. His head held high, he glances back one last time and if I'm not mistaken, I see him smirk triumphantly.

His car door closes, and I wait until it disappears out of sight before I bound up the stairs to my apartment. I am positively giddy and can barely open my own door as I fumble with the key ring. Once I'm safe in my space, I lean against the door and lazily slide down, feeling as if I could practically melt onto the floor. My heart is beating wildly, and I can't keep this stupid smile off my face. I'm sure my cheeks are colored an impossibly bright shade of red am I'm thankful that Jackson's not here to witness it. This had to have been one of, if not the best first dates I've been on in… forever. Jackson Avery is surely not the man I thought him to be. Of course, he's handsome, debonair and the perfect gentleman. He comes from a good family and has excellent breeding, so I wouldn't have expected anything less. But, he's also nice, funny and giving. That's something I'd never read printed about him in the tabloids and I suspect he doesn't share that part of himself with many people so to know that he trusted me, someone he barely knows, touched me deeply.

I'll admit, I was mistaken when we first met when I spouted all those horrible things I thought about him. My assumptions were clearly wrong, and I feel a pang of guilt for jumping to the conclusion that I knew exactly who he was. He's nothing like I pictured him at all and I have to wonder to myself why he actively chooses to let the public think he is this irresponsible, chauvinistic, womanizing playboy. Something tells me that I've only scratched the surface as to the person he truly is and the journalist in me can't help but be curious. I make it a point to try and keep my career and personal lives separate, but it's hard for that not to bleed over into my work, but I know that my date with Jackson will be something that won't make the pages of _Sasse_.

Just as I'm about to stand up off the floor, I feel the door press against me and panic only for a second before I roll my eyes in realization that it can only be one person forcing their way in. Frankly, I'm surprised it's taken her this long to make her way down to get the scoop. Actually, I wouldn't have been shocked at all if she'd met me on the front landing like an overprotective parent who impressionable virgin daughter is late coming home from a date.

"God, your finally home. Do you know how long I've been up waiting for you?" she barks at me, "I'm missing out on precious hours of beauty sleep. Not that I need it. I'm gorgeous."

"Hello to you to, Cristina," I respond in a honeyed tone knowing that it irks her.

"Yeah, yeah. Enough with all that. Tell me how your evening with Prince Charming went," she demands as she walks over to the refrigerator, pulls out a bottle of water, then makes herself at ease on the couch.

She glares at me with, rapt in anticipation of what I have to say and like two teenage girls gossiping about the boy they like, I can't wait to tell her about him.

I kick off my high heels, hitch up my dress and sit cross-legged facing her.

"I don't even know how to describe it. He was not what I expected. I mean, I know his reputation, well, at least I thought I did, but this Jackson, the Jackson that I was with tonight was nothing like I'd imagined," I relay to her as she listens to me attentively.

"He was engaging and open when he talked about himself. He listened to me and seemed really interested in what I had to say. We talked about our families, about the work we do, about… everything. Honestly, it was refreshing. I know I prejudged him, and I'd be lying if I didn't say that I was expecting for some of my misconceptions about him to creep out, but they didn't," I say in amazement.

"So, did he talk about all those hot women he dates? Did you tell him about your dating dry spell? What delicious little details did he confess. C'mon, Red, spill," she asks greedily and almost expect her to rub her hands together manically.

"Like I said, we talked about a lot of things. How different our lives were growing up, extracurricular activities, I don't know, lots of stuff, but thankfully, our love lives wasn't one of them," I happily confess.

"Extracurricular activities? Who do you think you're talking to? Give me the juice. I know he told you more than that. I can tell by the look in your eye. You're holding out on me? Your best friend in the world? I'm offended," she says and pouts for effect.

I debate divulging what Jackson told me about his work in lower income communities, but wisely reconsider.

"You're right, he did share something with me in confidence and Cristina you know I'd tell you just about anything, but this is something I think I'll keep just between him and me," I say forthright and knowing she's my friend, I'm not worried that she'll take that as a slight.

It's then that she covers her mouth with one hand and points to me with one black, manicured finger.

"Oh my God! You like him," she shouts as if we're standing a hundred feet apart and not practically in each other's laps.

"Well, yeah. I thought that would be pretty obvious," I state flatly.

"No. I mean you really, _really_ like him," she teases as if she's five years old, "Red, are you thinking about finally dropping your panties and letting him get up in there."

"Oh, God, Cristina. Why do you have to be so crass? No! I'm not. We've been on one date and that's the furthest from what was on my mind tonight."

"You are such a fucking liar. I can see it written all over your face," she declares and begins to taunt me in a singsong manner, "You want him to kiss you. You want to touch him. You want him naked."

"Shut up," I shout, but can't manage to keep a straight face as I begin to laugh at her childish antics as she begins to hump the air as if simulating sex.

"Well, at least tell me this," she asks after our laughter dies down, "Did he at least try to feel you up on the ride home?"

I shake my head at her in exasperation, "No, he didn't. He respected the boundaries, but he did kiss me goodnight."

"Ooh, now this is getting good. What did his lips feel like? He looks like he's be a really good kisser," she asks eagerly.

"How should I know?" I admit truthfully, "He kissed me on the cheek."

Her expression is blank as she ponders my words.

"On the cheek. Are you kidding me? What in the Mormon kind of hell is that a way to end a date?" she demands to know.

"I thought it was sweet," I exclaim, "Most guys would get all alpha male and wouldn't even hesitate to try and kiss me on the mouth, but Jackson, he's different."

"Jesus Christ, you're already falling for this guy," she pronounces as if her word is law.

"I am not," I state emphatically, but I'm not even sure if I buy what I've just uttered myself.

Just as I'm about to refute her claim further, my cell phone dings and my body practically vibrates when I pick it up to look at the screen and see I have a message from Jackson.

Cristina must be able to read it all over my face as I'm sure the faint smile painted on my lips is a clear indication.

"It's him, isn't it?" she asks but doesn't wait for me to answer as she snatches the phone from my fingers.

"Oh, isn't this cute," she mocks, then starts to read his message with I assume is her attempt to sound male.

"Thank you for the lovely date. I had a great time. Hope we can do it again, soon."

Before I can reach for the cell to see it his words, she takes it upon herself to respond.

"Wait, what are you writing?" I ask fearfully. It's not that Cristina would text back something filthy, but she's not about being making the situation a tad uncomfortable for me.

"Mind your own business. This is between me and your new boyfriend," she retorts as she types away furiously.

It only takes a second for him to reply to whatever it is she wrote as the ding fires back quickly.

Cristina chuckles and starts typing again and I'm filled with anxious energy.

"You'd better not be writing anything dirty. I'll kill you," I state with ferocity, but my threat is empty as they always are when it pertains to her.

"Don't worry, your puritanical status will remain intact," she says as she waves me off, "I'm just being coquettish. Got to make him really want you."

She sends the last message and when he replies, she hands the phone back over to me, evil grin in place.

I can barely contain myself as I scroll back to the top to see what transpired and as I start at the beginning of the chain.

 **Received 11:00 PM – Thank you for the lovely date. I had a great time. Hope we can do it again, soon.**

 **Sent 11:02 PM – I had a really great time, too. I'd like to do it again soon as well.**

 **Received 11:04 PM – Would it be okay if I called you in the next few days to set something up?**

 **Sent 11:05 PM – I'd be perfectly fine with that.**

 **Received 11:05 PM – Okay, then. Talk to you soon.**

 **Sent 11:06 PM – Goodnight, Jackson.**

 **Received 11:06 PM – Goodnight, beautiful.**

I know I'm cheesing but I can't help myself. I feel like a teenager with a crush and I don't care who knows.

"You jerk!" I yell at Cristina then bat her on the arm once I realize that she hadn't written anything bad at all.

I go back to the text and review it all again when she interrupts me.

"Hey, Red. You know I'm so happy that you had a nice time with him, but April, I need you to hear this," she pleads, and I know what she has to say is serious. She never calls me April unless she wants my full and undivided attention.

"This all seems wonderful and he sounds like a great guy, but you've been on one date. I don't want you getting ahead of yourself. You haven't opened yourself up to a man in a long time and I don't want you to get hurt."

Her words are sincere, and, in this moment, I realize why she's my best friend.

I lean forward and embrace her in a hug and unsurprisingly she maintains my crushing hold for only for a seconds before wiggling free. Cristina isn't the expressive type and that she even allowed that much intimacy, even between us just proves how strong our bond is.

"Well, I'm gonna head back upstairs. I'll talk to you tomorrow," she announces as she closes the cap on her water bottle and places it on the end table.

"Alright," I say and shake my head in amusement. The idea that she would put her unused portion of water back in the fridge is comical at best.

Just before she leaves, her hand on the knob, I tell her, "You know I love you, right?"

And in typical Cristina fashion, she replies, "Bitch, you'd better," before shutting the door behind her.

I throw my head back onto the headrest and relive the night over again in my mind. I'm almost sad that it had to end but asking him to come upstairs would have been highly inappropriate and the last thing I want to do is lead him on.

I know I haven't dated much lately, but I'm not unschooled in how it all works. After getting to know him better, Jackson doesn't seem the type to expect me to have sex with him the first night, but that doesn't mean he'd turn down the offer. But Cristina's right. I can't afford to go gaga over him. As far as I know, this could all be an act. A ruse to get my defenses down so he can bed me and add me to the long list of women he's rumored to have concurred.

I immediately deny my traitorous thoughts because in my heart of hearts, I feel this is far from the truth. Jackson wore no mask and I believe that he has been more real with me tonight then he has in a long time with anyone and I'm hopeful at the idea that he cares enough to be honest with me.

I hoist myself up off the sofa and put Cristina's half drank water away. It'll be there for her in the morning when she comes down to visit me.

I doublecheck the locks on the door then turn out the lights and head for my bedroom. Placing my shoes back into their designation spot in on the rack, I slip out of my dress and pull a pair of comfy pajama bottoms and a camisole out of the bureau drawer. It's Saturday tomorrow and I don't have anything big planned, so I don't bother setting my alarm, hoping to get in a few good hours of uninterrupted sleep in before I take on the day.

I start out on my side, but it only takes me a minute before I'm lying on my back as my brain won't allow me to rest. I know what or rather who is on my mind and I know that if I try and force myself not to think about him, I'll never fall asleep.

So, I give into my desires and reflect on how good he looked tonight dressed in his suit which seemed as if it were tailor made to fit just for him. I remember how he smelled when he leaned in to kiss my cheek. He smelled of spice and leather and it made my head spin at how intoxicating it was. And though it was brief, when he took my hand and led me to our table, I reveled in how strong and comforting his hand felt in mine. His laugh was so infectious that I couldn't envision how anyone could hear it and not join in. His smile with his perfect white teeth and how he would sometimes give me this lopsided grin was too adorable for words. The smoky tone when he spoke. Not in the way of someone who has partaken in too many cigarettes, but smoky as in sexually attractive in a mysterious way with the slightest of lisps that I found captivating. His lips which oh so briefly met my cheek were so soft that I prayed to the heavens above that I would get the chance to feel them pressed against mine. But his eyes. His eyes are what drew me in. Yes, they're gorgeous with their coloring somewhere between blue and green, but that's not what entranced me. There was something behind them. A complexity that somehow bared his soul to anyone who dared look close enough and I wanted that person to be me.

Suddenly the room feels too hot. My clothes to binding and I know the reason why. I'm aroused, and this feeling isn't going to go away. I brazenly slip one hand beneath the cotton fabric and place the pad of my middle finger on my clit. I rub it at a delightfully slow pace as I intend on making this sensation last.

I fantasize about Jackson watching me. His hands all over my body. His long and I have no doubt, talented fingers touching me in places no man has ever before. I've been groped plenty of times, but anything below the belt has been strictly forbidden. This is probably the first in a long time that I've entertained the idea of tossing my principles. It's not that I'm opposed to the idea of having sex. Far from it. I just want it to happen when I believe I'm ready and with the right guy.

I start to pant as I reach a fevered pitch, the sensation building, and I never want it to stop. With my other hand, I reach under my top and pinch my nipple hard when without warning, I scream out, "Jackson," unabashedly into the night, my body twitching as I cum. It takes me longer than normal to come down from this natural high, but I eventually drift off to the best sleep I've had in ages.

I wake the next morning at nine, refreshed and ready to start the day. I yawn, stretch my arms over my head, then close my eyes so that I can clearly picture Jackson's face and ponder what it would be like to wake the real him next to me and titter as the thought of it warms me. I get up from the bed and walk over to the window and gaze out onto the street below. I am greeted with pedestrians already up and moving and a temperature that is fitting for the season. New York weather can be erratic at times, but this morning, the sun is shining amidst a cloudless sky and I wait because I'm sure any second now, birds will show up on my windowsill to whistle a jaunty tune.

I'm in the shower when I hear the front door slam and Cristina calls out to me, "Hurry, I've got coffee!"

She's right on schedule and it doesn't take me long to dry off and get dressed then meet her at the dining table where she has the newspaper already spread out, a cream cheese Danish crammed in her mouth as crumbs falls out when she speaks.

"So, how long before I left did you think about pretty boy and rub one out?" she questions without a hint of jocularity.

I'm about to contest her assumption when it dawns on me who I'm talking to, "Not long," I concede.

"Not surprising," she states vehemently, "So, what's on your agenda today, Red?"

"Not much," I say with a shrug, "Errands. Working on a new article. Gonna call my mom and sisters to catch up. The usual. You?"

"Got a date tonight," she tells me and wriggles her eyebrows for effect.

"Anyone I know?" I ask.

"Nah. It's this new guy I met on the subway. I've been sizing him up for a few weeks and he seems harmless enough, but I'll be sure to vet this one. I don't need any more conveniently married men with kids in my life," she says with a huff.

"Well, like you told me, be careful and just in case, my stun gun is always at the ready," I state, and we laugh at the memory of Owen running down the stairs.

We chat a while longer before she leaves to attend to her own errands. It's almost ten o'clock and I don't want to waste such a picturesque day, so I take care of the mundane tasks that need completion before venturing outside. I clean up the mess Cristina left behind, then wipe down the kitchen counters, sweep the wood floors, vacuum the rugs, clean my bathroom, then gather any miscellaneous items I see strewn around. My place all neat and tidy, I bag my clothes for the drycleaner, make a quick shopping list and take the half empty trash to put in the garbage can by the stoop.

I stroll around the neighborhood as I make my stops and say hello to the faces I recognize. There's this misconception that people in New York aren't friendly. Well, it's not that they particularly are, it's only that people are so busy being, busy that the everyday niceties escape them. But those amongst my community have seen me enough and sometimes I can't stop that small-town farm girl from seeping through.

By the time I make it home, it's after two. I know my mom's probably been up since dawn because even on the weekends, I can count on my parents to get up with the chickens. I dial her number and the joy in her voice when she learns it's me makes happy. I try to talk to my mom at least twice a week, but she knows my life can be hectic, but being so far away from home, I don't like her to think that there's not one moment I don't miss them. My father isn't much of a talker so when she lets him know it's me, I can hear him in the distant say, _"Hey bean. I miss you,"_ before he saunters off to do whatever it was he was doing before my mother's brief interruption halted him.

My mom updates me on all the happenings from home. Who got married. Who got divorced. Who's having a baby. Who the new talk of the town is, but before long as expected, she asks me if there is someone special in my life. It's far to soon for me to talk about Jackson because I have no clue where this is going with us, so I don't even bring him up. Besides, though I don't believe in bad luck, to be on the safe side, I'm keeping the details about our dating close to the vest.

We talk for another hour before I call my sisters all in succession. The length of time on the phone with them varies depending on which kid of Libby's is hollering out to her help, whether Kimmie's husband will quit hovering and allow her to have a conversation in private without interjecting. He's not controlling, just nosy, and Alice who has plans to meet with friends and promises to call me later on in the week. So, when I'm done, I figure it's as good a time as any to labor on my own projects.

I grab my computer from my desk and take up my favorite spot on the chaise in my bedroom. I crack open the window open and take in a breath of fresh air and dive in. I've done the majority of my research for my take on, ' _How Important is Sex to a Healthy Relationship?'_ Yes, I know, it's ironic, but I spend time researching, making observations from the people I know and my own relationships in the past and in the end, I'm ultimately pleased with what I've written so far.

I'm just about to tackle my perception of the perspective when I hear my phone ring. I have it face down on the floor next to me as not to distract me while I'm writing because I tend to get distracted when I see those notification pop up on my Twitter and IG feeds.

I hadn't been expecting any calls, so when I turn it over and see Jackson's name flashing across the screen, I drop it back to the floor as if it's burned me.

When he said he'd talk to me soon, I certainly hadn't expected him to call the very next day. Did guys do that, I wonder. I thought calling the next day was breaking some kind of guy code. At least that's the general consensus was anyway.

It's on it's forth ring and I'm sure he won't wait much longer so I hurriedly answer, sure that I sound out of breath, "Hello?"

"April. Hi, how are you?" he replies, and I'm already swooning.

"I-I'm good, thanks. How are you?" I ask him as I try hard to tamp down the waiver in my vocal cords.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you," he continues, "but I was sitting here thinking about you and I know that I said I'd call and I hope this isn't weird that we just saw each other last night and I'm calling already and I assure you this isn't like me at all and I wanted to know if you'd like to have dinner with me Wednesday night, I mean if you're don't already have other plans and I know we just saw one another but…" he manages to say in one long breath as he trails off.

I cover my mouth with my hand as I snicker quietly to myself once he's finished. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear he was nervous. The Jackson Avery I know of doesn't get nervous and I find it endearing that I have that effect on him. When he's done with his ramble of a statement, I can hear him breathing on the other end of the line awaiting my response. I don't intend on torturing him any longer, so I answer promptly.

"I just so happen to be free Wednesday night, so it's a date," I reply enthusiastically and subconsciously wonder if it's fitting that Wednesday is also known as hump day.

"That's great," he says, just as excitedly before continuing, "So, what are you up to today?"

"Oh, you know, the usual Saturday routine. Chores around the house. Errands to run. Nothing exciting I'm afraid. I just got off the phone with my mom and sisters not too long ago. As for now, I'm editing a story I'm working on. What about you?" I ask and pray that his day has been as uneventful as mine.

"Pretty much the same. Met my friend Ben at the gym and played some ball. Puttered around the house. Tonight, I'm attending a party at Jay Z's 40/40 Club to celebrate his new album. You know, hanging with all the beautiful people," he says with a sardonic chuckle.

Now that I know more about him, I understand that he attends a lot of these events not because he necessarily wants to, but because it's expected of him and I don't know why, but I'm instantly jealous thinking of all the women that will be surrounding him tonight.

He doesn't belong to me. We danced at a club opening and went on one date. I have no claim over him and it would be foolish of me to think that a man like him would go stag or at the least go home alone. I so badly want to ask him if he's taking a date but suppress my curiosity no matter how tempted I may be of the answer.

"That's supposed to be some event. Carina's been talking about that all week. Ad nauseum," I say and laugh hoping he can't hear the bitterness in my tone.

"Well, I already promised him I'd make an appearance," he states and if he had been reading my mind, tacks on, "I just hope that I can get in and out unnoticed because I really don't feel like being around people tonight. Well, certain people that is," he tells me, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice.

I don't know if he added that bit of information for my benefit, but I bow my head sheepishly at his implication that he wants to spend time with me.

"Alright then," he resumes, "I'll let you get back to your writing and text you Monday with details on where we'll be meeting."

"Can't wait," I say honestly, "Bye, Jackson."

"Goodbye, April," he says ending the call, but I keep the phone pressed to my ear.

Something is happening between us. Something that neither of us expected and right now I don't know if that's if it's a good thing or not. Only time will tell.

I delve back into my work and continue for another hour and end the night in front of the television with a bowl of popcorn and watch _Pitch_ _Perfect_ _3_ for the umpteenth time. Cristiana stopped in before her date for me to give her the once over and to borrow my red Steve Madden Daisie faux leather high heels. She always says that they are totally fuck me pumps and since I'm not putting them to good use, maybe she should. I know it's all talk. She rarely gives it up that quick.

The rest of my weekend is more of the same. Work. Television. I go for a run, then more work and vegging out in front of the television.

Monday at work my mood is upbeat. I'm already anticipating my date with Jackson on Wednesday and am busy plotting in my head what I should wear. I say good morning loudly enough for those in my vicinity to hear me as I walk in and present my assistant, Sarah with a freshly baked cinnamon raisin bagel I picked up for her from the deli next door.

"Good morning, April," she begins and talks in that rapid-paced fashion that I've become used to.

"I have your itinerary for the week and have updated your online calendar. I just need to know if you still plan on attending _Women in Media_ luncheon so that I can send back your RSVP. You have a telephone call scheduled this afternoon at three with January Jones, and you wanted me to remind you to review the color copy of your upcoming column. Also, Addison postponed the nine-thirty meeting until ten-thirty and Carina has been calling for you nonstop," she concludes then looks to me for further instruction.

"Can you gather my notes from last week's staff meeting, prep my question list for this afternoon and make me a double expresso," I tell her as she trails me into my office.

As for Carina, I don't even bring acknowledge her. I know exactly what she wants, and it has nothing to do with work. She wants to know how my date with Jackson went Friday night and I know she'll be disappointed, but I don't plan on providing anything but the basic details. It's not that I don't like Carina or trust her. I just don't want to become the anonymous woman that Jackson Avery had been seen out to dinner with in her daily blog. Of course, she wouldn't do anything to harm or out me, but she has a job to do to and covering the rich and famous is part of it. One poor decision on my part to disclose the specifics of our evening together will surely do nothing to endear Jackson towards me and I will always strive to maintain the privacy of my relationships. I refuse to be her main source material.

I successfully end up avoiding Carina much of the day and even though she sits near me in the morning meeting, I avoid eye contact and doodle consistently when I'm not notating anything important to give the appearance of being occupied, yet she manages to trap me in the elevator as we leave for the day.

"Bella, you know I've been trying to get a hold of you all day. Have you been avoiding me?" she asks suspiciously.

"Of course not," I scoff in an attempt to play off the fact that I'd been ducking her, "You know how it is. Busy, busy, busy."

"You never told me how your date went with, Jackson. Where did he take you? What did you two talk about? Are you seeing him again?" she asks in rapt progression and I can't help but reason that this is the reporter in her coming out and not an interested friend.

"Yes, we went out. We went to Morimoto and as for the last part, that's none of your business," I impart with a wink.

"Sparare, you're no fun. I tried to corner Jackson the other night and let me tell you, he's just as secretive as you are," she whines.

Now, that was good news to my ears. Though he's widely known, he doesn't freely offer up details of his life and I know now that most of what people say about him is second-hand information, guesses or straight up lies.

She continues to talk exuberantly almost as if I'm not even there and I'm silently relieved when the elevator comes to a stop and we pour out into the lobby. I don't wait for her to corner me again and quickly way goodbye and hail a taxi for home to await Jackson's call.

It's a month later and I'm the happiest I've been in a long time. Jackson and I have been dating the entire time and we show no signs of slowing down. We've been out to dinners, clubs, art exhibits and he even surprised me with tickets to Hamilton. Dating him is an experience. While he is extremely wealthy, he doesn't fault it while still showing me the finer things. We haven't gotten anywhere near sleeping together, but we've definitely moved on from cheek kisses.

It was on our third date when he dropped me off at my home and at the top of my stairs before he turned to go he leaned in and planted one right on my lips. It didn't last long and was chaste, but it was by far the most erotic chaste kiss I'd ever had. In the moment, I had an internal debate as to whether to invite him upstairs but nixed that thought straightaway. It's not that I don't want him, I do, it's just that I didn't want to give him false hope. He's proven to be nothing but a gentleman, but I don't know how much longer my good girl routine is going to last. He doesn't seem to expect anymore than I'm willing to give but I know at some point he's going to attempt to move things forward and I have no clue as to what my reaction will be.

After that, it there was hand holding, then his hand placed on the small of my back as we walked, then an arm thrown over my shoulder and finally deeper and longer kisses. I believe things are progressing nicely but tonight, I fear I may be tested like never before.

Tonight, I'm meeting Jackson at his place for dinner. Over the course of the last several weeks, I learned so much about him and one of the more interesting is that he cooks. I mean, it's not by any means unusual to find a man that lives alone to make himself a meal, but I always figured him the type to eat out nearly every night or have a personal chef to do all his cooking. He told me that was skilled at making gourmet meals and wanted to show me personally what he could do.

Arriving at his building, I'm directed to the elevator where the operator uses a key to select the penthouse floor. As it ascends, I fidget uncertainly with my clutch. I'm not overly dressed as he said that this was going to be completely casual, but I hope that it's not too casual for his tastes. He's yet to see me dressed down and I think what I've selected to wear is appropriate.

I have on a pair of dark blue jeans that aren't tight but fit as if they were painted on. An ivory long sleeved silk charmeuse blouse that dips just low enough so that the top button clasps near my cleavage and a pair of black ballet flats. My hair is loose, but I've bumped the edges to give it some lift, but I didn't want it to look like I spent a lot of time on it. I want to give the impression that what I chose was an afterthought. That I'm carefree and go with the flow.

When the elevator stops I walk a few feet to the only door on the floor and it opens before I even have the chance to knock. Obviously, he'd been alerted of my arrival but the look on his face when he sees me causes me to blush. He doesn't' hesitate as he leans in to kiss me and at this point in our relationship, it's not strange for him to do so.

"Come in," he says ushering me inside and when I pass over the threshold, he comments on my outfit, "Wow, you look amazing."

I turn in the entrance and finally get a good look at him. He too is wearing jeans with an indigo blue vee neck tee that probably costs more than everything I have on put together and a pair of sneakers I don't recognize but I'm sure are expensive.

In other words, he looks hot.

"You can put your purse there," he suggests as he pointing to a mahogany accent chest against the wall.

Wordlessly I place it down and follow behind him.

"Well, this is it," he says spreading his arms wide, "Would you like a tour before I start cooking?"

I nod but find I'm speechless as he shows me around his domain. I mean, I've been to fancy homes before, but this is ridiculous. I have a very good salary and where I live is considered an affluent neighborhood. Addison lives in a townhouse she owns over on Park Place and I know she's worth somewhere in the tens of millions, but this, this is beyond my comprehension. Jackson's family worth is in the billions and this place surely attests to that fact.

He lives alone but he has five bedrooms, a gourmet kitchen, terrace and God knows what other amenities come along with living in a building of this stature, but one of my favorite things about his penthouse is the view. It looks out over Central Park and there is a perfect view of the New York skyline. I'm awestruck to say the least.

He's proud of his place and I can tell that it's not due to vanity. He shows me some of the art he collected and has scattered around his home. I do find it odd that there is one room he omits from the tour, but I don't question it. If he wanted me to know what it was in there, he'd tell me.

I follow him into the kitchen and take a seat in a high bar chair where I see several ingredients spread out across the massive marble counter.

"My gosh," I express in amusement, "What are you making?"

"Well, I thought we'd start out with a Caprese Salad, then for the main course, a Salt-Baked leg of lamb with Olive Potatoes," he says with a flourish of his hand.

I giggle at his antics, "Mmm, that's sounds delicious and it smells wonderful."

"I hope so. I've never made this particular dish for anyone before so if it's bad, we can be sick together," he says, with fingers crossed.

"Why don't you pick out a wine," he says indicating the wine refrigerator that is completely stocked.

I amble over to the massive appliance and peer through the glass door until I see something that fancies me. I spy a Lafite-Rothschild that I've been dying to taste. It's a bit expensive for my budget, but I open the door and pull it from the shelf.

"Is this one okay?" I ask hopefully.

"Whatever you like is okay," he replies and gives me a toothy grin.

He opens a side drawer and passes me a wine cork. Magically, two wine glasses appear, and after I've opened it, I set the bottle down and let it breath for a few minutes before pouring the two of us a glass.

"Is there anything I can do to help," I inquire.

"You sure can," he says, and I can see the delight in eyes.

He goes to the pantry and takes out a white chef's apron for me. I come around the counter and before I can reach for it, he slips the loop over my head then wraps his arms around my back so that he can tie it.

I can't help but look up into his dazzling eyes as he secures the string into a tight bow. My own eyes are glued to him as he licks his lips and I feel a flash of heat wash over me.

To hell with it, I think and as I'm about to make a move, his arms move from around me and he turns back to the tomatoes he'd been slicing.

I don't know if I should be offended or relieved.

He hands me a knife and instructs me to cut the fresh mozzarella for the salad as he continues prepping for the course. I watch him intently as he cooks. The way his biceps flex as he stirs what's in the pan. His broad back that in encased beneath his form fitting shirt. His trim waist which begs my vision to travel lower to his ass that looks scrumptious in those jeans.

We talk about nothing in particular. I give him the scoop on what's new and happening coming this summer. According to my magazine, that is. We talk about a few movies that are coming out that we should go see. Eventually he takes over the conversation and I know he's talking to me, but I can't help but visualize what he looks like naked and am startled when he calls out my name for what I'm sure isn't the first time.

"Ready?" he asks as he brandishes two plates full of what he has now dubbed as his signature dish.

I carry the salad and we take a seat at the kitchen table. It seats eight, is made of exotic wood and is anything but subtle. He says it's less formal than the dining room and thinks we'd be more comfortable.

He takes the seat at the head of the table, so I have no choose to sit right next to him and I think that was his plan all along. I think it's cute that when hi shoe keeps brushing against mine and it reminds me of what kids do when they're trying to let the other person know they want to be near.

He asks me about my week at and I fill him in on all the exciting and not so exciting details, but what impresses me the most is that he doesn't seem bored at all when he's listening to me. He takes in every word, commenting when appropriate and asks thought provoking questions. It's then that I remember that Jackson's job isn't to be a man about town. He manages several real estate holdings for his family so he's extremely intelligent. He then tells me all about the wheeling and dealings he's done the past week and though I don't know much about real estate, I can tell he's versed on the topic, but also note that his heart isn't really in it. There's something about the inflection he uses when he speaks about it. It's something he must do, not something he loves.

As I start in on the lamb, the fork raised halfway from the plate, I sense him observing me.

He jerks his chin, giving me the go ahead to taste it and I say a silent prayer that it isn't disgusting because the last thing I want to do tonight is disappoint him.

I chew hungrily and scrunch my forehead as if I'm thinking seriously about it. I'm only teasing him of course as he waits patiently for my review.

"So, how is it?" he asks with bated breath.

"It's… it's scrumptious," I say and take another huge bite as proof.

I can tell he's pleased as he inches closer and busses me on the corner of my mouth and the act is so intimate almost choke.

We continue to eat dinner and throughout I can't help but notice how much he's flirting with me tonight. Half-lidded gazes and lingering looks. He's hardly taken his eyes off me. He holds my free hand in his and at one point even lifts it to kiss my palm.

Yes, we've kissed, we've embraced, we've danced so closely that I couldn't tell you where my body began and his ended, but tonight, it's different and I'm vexed.

By the time we're finished diner, I'm content and he suggests we move into the living room. I settle on the supple leather couch as he picks up a remote and turns on some music. Instantaneously, the sounds of Sade fill the room as he refills our glasses with wine then takes a seat next to me.

This is certainly new for us. It's nothing like sitting at the dinner table or next to each other at the theatre. We're the only two people in this room and there are no obstacles between us.

We're slightly turned toward each other but neither of us say anything and then I know without question tonight's the night. It's going to happen and I'm remiss to stop it. As if reading my mind, he takes the glass from my me and places it along with his on the coffee table.

One hand braced lightly on my cheek, he ducks his head and kisses me, and I swear to God, I see sparks. Our lips part and he presses his nose lightly against mine and looks to me for approval. My throat constricts but I bob my head giving him permission to continue.

He kisses me again and makes his way from my lips, across my jawline to my cheek, then my ear where he nibbles on the lobe. My pulse quickens, and my body vibrates. I'm so turned on that I don't know what to do with my hands. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm not a child. I've been in this position before, so I swallow as best I can with dry a mouth and plant my hands on his waist. All I can feel is his tight muscles as they shift when my fingertips dance across his abs. The next thing I know he moves and advances so it's on my neck and when he opens his mouth wider and laves his tongue over my pulse point, I can't help the salacious moan that erupts from somewhere deep down below.

He takes it as a sign that I welcome what he's doing to me and I do. This only makes him grow bolder and as his right hand is busy cradling my face, his left hand slowly slides down the silk material of my blouse and his fingers brush accidentally against my breast, I assume as it traverses until he takes a firm grip on my ass.

He draws up together even closer if that's possible, then suddenly, he's suddenly me again. This time, he uses his tongue to gently part my lips and unexpectedly, all I taste is him. It's not the lingering herbs from the food we ate or the full-bodied notes from the wine. What I'm discerning is all Jackson and Lord help me, but I want more.

I tug at the shirt and pull it from the waistband of his jeans. He takes my cue and peels it from his body to reveal himself and I'm confronted with a vision. He's all caramel skin and sculpted physique and all I wanna do is take a bite.

I take the lead and kiss him, but something changes. I feel my body tilt backward and before I realize it, I'm flat on my back.

He hovers over me and uses his teeth to gnaw his lower lip, "Now you, April Kepner. _You_ are delicious."

I let out the tiniest of squeaks as he makes a path from my lips to my neck then to my collarbone and until his own lips are planted against my breastbone.

I'm panting heavily by this point, my eyes darting erratically in every direction in as I try to find something I can focus on to ground me.

This is a natural part of the progression in a relationship I affirm. I mean, we haven't explicitly stated what we are to each other, but this what we are is far from casual. It's only normal that he expects at some point I would want to consummate the relationship. But when his fingers grace the top button of my shirt and he pops it open, I panic.

I'm scared. Not of him or of the thought of having sex, I don't know, just afraid. I'm sandwiched between him and the couch and I feel like I'm sinking under water and I can't breathe. Suddenly, he feels way to heavy and I push him away from me and stand, trying desperately to rebutton my shirt.

I must look a frantic mess because his lips are pursed in confusion and he's scrutinizing me as if he's never seen me before.

"April are you okay?" he asks, and I can tell that he's concerned.

"Ye-Yes," I say as I begin to stammer, "I just remembered I have something I need to take care of."

"What? Take care of. It's nine o'clock. Where are you going?" he asks and I'm sure he's even more perplexed.

"I know. I'm sorry, I'm not feeling well. It just came over me all of a sudden," I mutter, unable to keep my lies straight.

As I start to take off, he grasps my forearm gently and turns me so that I'm facing him.

"April, did I do something wrong?" he wonders and the confusion that is written so plainly on his face nearly breaks me.

"No, no. Not at all. I promise. You've done nothing wrong. I- I have to go," I say as I stumble over my own feet.

"April, please," he begs, "just talk to me. If I offended you or moved to fast, I apologize. I would never do anything to upset you."

"You haven't Jackson," I say hoping that it's enough of an explanation, but don't wait for him to ask me more as I hurry for the front hall, snatch my clutch off the table and damn near run for the elevator.

I push the button frantically as if that will make it come any faster. I'm worried that he'll try to stop me, but I notice that by the time the elevator arrives, and the doors close behind me, he hasn't stepped out to follow me at all.

As we descend, I try to maintain my composure but furiously wipe a tear that has fallen. Went I get to the lobby, the doorman hails a cab for me and it's only when I'm safely in the backseat that I allow myself to cry.

I am so angry with myself. Angry, embarrassed and ashamed. I left him standing there with no justification for my behavior. I could have told him weeks ago that I not that I was a virgin, but that I didn't think I'd be ready to have a sexual relationship with him anytime soon. It's not like he ever pressured me, but now he probably thinks I'm some frigid bitch who's just been stringing him along.

When the taxi stops in front of my place, I pay the cabbie, not bothering to wait for my change and rush the stairs. I know Cristina's out for the night, so I have no one's shoulder to cry on. I pray that any moment now my phone will ring, and it'll be Jackson, but as I sit in the dark of my bedroom, my wishes go unanswered. I'm too much of a coward to call him myself so I cry until there's no tears left.

I fear I may have ruined everything, and it hurts more than I could have ever imagined because I think I've fallen in love with him.

* * *

 **A/N: Chapter Title Song – Best Thing I Never Had by Beyoncé**

 **Italian translations:**

 **Bella – Beautiful**

 **Sparare – Shoot**


End file.
